Star Fox: Legacy, Volume II
by chaos Leader
Summary: About 15 years after the first volume: What was supposed to have been a routine job finds itself up against a greater, more insidious threat than was thought possible. Yet in the midst of the turmoil, there is compassion, understanding, even love to be found. Don't miss out on this if you can help it. This Volume is Now COMPLETE! Special Announcement Afterward!
1. First Contact

**-****スターフォックスの遺産、番目の本****  
>-Star Fox: Legacy-<br>Volume II-**

**最初のお問い合わせ****  
><em>First Contact<em>**

The shuttle sliced through the planet's atmosphere, pulverizing otherwise harmless inert gases into a white-hot blaze outside the craft. At its blinding speed of many kilometers per second, the shuttle's impact shields completely decimated any and all air molecules it collided with, producing nearly pure thermal energy from the friction. Such were the glorious fires of atmospheric reentry common to every spacecraft. It made the entire shuttle rumbled and shook violently as it descended. The view outside the windows was obscured by the blazing sundered air.

It never gets any easier to endure...

Finally, after far too long, the violent tremors ceased as the shuttle took a steady flight path.

"Whooo _yeah!_" the pilot shouted over his shoulder from his controls, "That oughta wake you all up!"  
>The pilot was a brash, cocksure khaki furred fox.<p>

The shuttle was small, and only carried three passengers strapped to their seats on this descent from orbit.

"Look at _that..._"  
>one of them was a portly, dark faced simian with rusty red hair and beard, gazing in wonder out one of the shuttle's windows.<p>

What he saw outside was a lush, thriving landscape; forests, plains, marshlands and landscapes of all types as they rushed past below. There was one major factor that set the landscape apart: the vegetation was colored primarily in shades of blue, rather than green.

"Ladies and gentlemen, outside these windows is a whole new world." the rusty red ape announced to the rest of the cabin "It is one of the first and nearest readily habitable planets ever to be discovered outside Lylat, not more than a single parsec away, and we shall be the first to set foot on her surface–"

"Don't forget there are signs of civilization here," the second passenger was a slim hound with a long, narrow face, "an _active_ civilization no less."

The ape nodded solemnly, "And for once Harrsion, we are going to get First Contact _right._"

"The chlorophyll pigment in the vegetation here can very easily be blue instead of green, there _are_ red leafed plans on the worlds of Lylat..."  
>The last passenger was a small, smooth scaled lizard with mainly green coloration. He fidgeted nervously in his seat as he peeped out the window next to him.<br>"Blue might even be a little more efficient than green at absorbing the amber-yellow light from the parent star for photosynthesis–"

The vulpine pilot  
>"I swear, if I have to hear any more of this guy's bio-babble while I'm trying to fly, I'm chucking him out right now and leaving him here with these blue plants he's so excited about..."<p>

"Hey, give him a break." Harrison shot back at the pilot, "He's been canned up in a spacecraft for well over a month making this journey. We've all got a little cabin fever."

"Eh, whatever..." the pilot shrugged it off, "We're coming up on the LZ anyway."

As the shuttle descended further toward the planet's surface, it passed over a number of small clearings where there appeared to be several stone buildings gathered in a village, or town. Some of the structures were quite impressive. However, the shuttle passed over the settlement before anyone could get a closer look. The details of the planet's sentient inhabitants were still a mystery.

The shuttle finally touched down in a grassy clearing some distance away from the settlement, but some of the taller buildings still stood out. The party of four disembarked with little trouble, greeted a cool breeze of pleasant, even invigorating fresh air of the uncharted world. The sounds of the cooling machinery of the shuttle were met with the distant calls and cries of local fauna. A few scurrying shapes were seen amongst the immediate surrounding vegetation, but most of the animals were likely frightened off by the shuttle's landing.

In the distance however, some shapes advanced toward the landing party from the direction of the native settlement. They were still too distant to make out clearly, but the vulpine pilot had come out equipped with a pair of binoculars, through which he observed the advancing figures.

"My god, they look so much like _us_–"

"What?" The lizard flinched, "Let me see."

"Is that even possible?"  
>Astounded, the pilot handed the binoculars to the nervous green reptilian.<p>

The lizard snatched up the binoculars and locked his gaze through them as the group came nearer.  
>"I... I guess it's not <em>completely<em> impossible, but–"

"I'm sure the new Xenobiology departments of the universities will come up with a reasonable explanation..." the ape assured his jittering colleague, "For now, we must be fair guests to this world, introduce ourselves, and give our hosts the finest first impression we can."

The native group came into clear view near the landing party. In almost every way, the natives did resemble common vulpine canids of Lylat, with one notable exception: their fur tones were restricted almost entirely to shades of blue. They wore mostly simple tunics, some had intricate jewelry, some also had their fur tattooed in artistic patterns, and a few of them carried weapons on their person. All of them chattered and whispered anxiously amongst themselves in a language no one in the party understood.

"I don't know about this, they're acting a little nervous-like."  
>The vulpine pilot's hand hovered over the handgun holster at his hip.<p>

The blue foxes continued their anxious murmur, occasionally gesturing at the landing party. No one from the shuttle party had any idea what to do next, and neither did the native group apparently.

A few awkward moments later, an older, distinguished female stepped out from the group of natives. Her clothing was of slightly higher quality than the others, and she strode forward with regal confidence. One of the other natives tried to step out in front of her, imploring her? Whatever the case, she brushed him off with a few words and continued forward toward the shuttle party.

"Ah, now _this_ is more like it."

The portly ape stepped forward to meet the elder native, but she stopped short, and held up her hand to the red ape in a gesture that said "halt". She looked over the party of four with a pair of keen, scrutinizing eyes, and stopped when her gaze fell upon Arno Harrison. She held out her hand and beckoned the slim hound to come forward.

The dark faced simian backed off, a little confused.  
>". . . I suppose she wants to do something with <em>you,<em> Harrison."

"What? Me?"

"Well go on then." he motioned for the hound to go forward, "Stand firm, tread with confidence, and meet this fine lady as an equal. What kind of message do we send these if their first meeting with an outsider is a babbling sheepish simpleton?"

A little flustered, half pushed by the ape, Arno Harrison stepped forward toward the elder native. Where she was calm, confident and inviting, the hound was a nervous uncertain wreck. He took a deep breath to settle himself, tried not to think too hard about what this all meant, and pressed forward to meet the blue furred vixen.

As he closed in, the elder extended her hand toward Harrison, and he did the same. The two met between their respective parties, and grasped one another's hand in a gesture of mutual respect.

She closed her eyes for a second, and upon opening them again, a pair of pale blue lights lit up insider her dark pupils. Arno was struck absolutely speechless by the bizarre sight, but she simply smiled back with calm confidence.

The lights in her eyes flared brightly, and began to flicker on and off like the flashes of a strobe light. The flickering quickly picked up speed, switching from blindingly bright to total darkness quicker and quicker, on and off, on and off, until it was finally impossible to distinguish the darkness from the light–

And then it stopped.

Arno Harrison found himself on his hands and knees staring at the bluish grass, panting hard as his chest heaved in and out, and his head ringing with a crushing headache that stole all other focus.

"What happened?" he wheezed out breathlessly, "What did you _do?_"

"Rest easy..." the elder vixen helped Harrison to his feet, "You're confused, and rightly so, but you are well."

"How are you even communicating with me?"

"Arno?" the vulpine shuttle pilot rushed to his aid, wide-eyed and utterly flabbergasted, "What the hell are you _saying_ to her?"

"I... what?" the hound asked as he shook his ringing head.

"You were talking in _their_ language!"

/

* * *

><p>

Dr. Beverly Finch shot bolt upright in her bed, drenched in sweat and pounding with a headache. It was one of _those_ dreams again: a dream built from memories that she never experienced firsthand. Getting a hold of herself, the avian glanced down at the alarm clock: 5:53 am, that's before the alarm clock would've gone off, but too late to go back to sleep. She hoisted herself out of bed with a small groan and turned on the room's lights, then headed to the bathroom close by...

The room layout was simple, but tasteful, with all the amenities of a cozy apartment. Outside the window though was another sight entirely. Dawn was just breaking over the horizon, lighting the landscape outside in a brilliant amber blaze.

Nearer, where the apartment stood, was a small urbanized enclave nestled amidst the lush surrounding forest. The buildings' designers decided to emulate the native architecture, and modernize it; intended to make integration of the native population a more inviting prospect for them. Whether or not it worked was difficult to say, since the complex was still fairly recent, and their presence in this area still fairly new...

This was the first and thus far most successful colony ever established outside the Lylat system, named for what the natives called this world in their own tongue: the Cerinia Institute.

/

* * *

><p><em>Look, all I'm asking is for you to just have the tiniest bit of vision. You know, to just sit back for one minute and look at the big picture. To take a chance on something that just might end up being the most profoundly impactful moment for humanity, for the history… of history. <em>

-Eleanor Arroway, _Contact,_ by Carl Sagan-

Author Note:

That's right ladies and gentlemen, _Star Fox: Legacy_ is going to the one and only ever-elusive and enigmatic world of Cerinia! All of those awkward unanswered questions about so many things in the series are going to get an answer, and hopefully you'll be able to read a great story out of it too. So strap yourselves in for another round of _Legacy_; I'm only just getting started.

As always, your feedback is most welcome.


	2. In the Shadow of a Greater Man

**偉大な人物の影で **

_**In the Shadow of a Greater Man**_

The period of violence localized around the Cornerian nation of Gaedel, –known simply as "The Troubles"– began shortly after the formation of the Lylat Union, when the national governments of Corneria merged to form a unified planetary government: the Cornerian Parliament. In the shuffle of such a major transition, divisive local issues resurfaced, which reignited a series of old and bitter political grudges.

Fueled by scores of zealous egos on all sides, these grudges quickly escalated into violent feuds. When the tension snapped and boiled over, innocent people began to die in the crossfire. The retaliatory attacks that followed only further compounded the issues, fueling further outrage and violence. The newly formed Cornerian Parliament complacently declared itself neutral, content to let the messy, senseless business run its course as opposed to dirtying their hands while establishing new interplanetary relations.

With no higher authority to act as a mediator, the violent actors divided themselves into two broad factions: those who believed they were oppressed, and felt forced to act; and those who believed they were wrongly targeted, and felt forced to retaliate. At times though, especially to those unfamiliar with Gaedelic history, it would become very difficult to differentiate one side from the other. Truthfully, neither side was completely without fault or reason, and the debates would continue long after the bloodshed ended.

/

* * *

><p>"<em>Oh! then tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall, Tell me why you hurry so?"<br>"Hush ma bouchal, hush and listen," And his cheeks were all a-glow.  
>"I bear orders from the captain, Get you ready quick and soon,<br>For the pikes must be together At the risin' of the moon..."_

* * *

><p>

Two figures were locked in combat, hand-to-hand sparring, in what amounted to little more than a cleared basement. One was a young black furred terrier, still in his teen years, and burning with determination. The other was an older black-and-white collie, probably in his mid to late thirties, focused and in control. Both canids fought wearing simple athletic shorts and close fitting sleeveless t-shirts, along with hand wraps and ankle braces– the bare minimum in safety.

The collie and terrier continued their sparring, a versatile form built on simplicity and instinct, but flexible enough to integrate more advanced and exotic techniques, some of which surfaced in the bout.

"Stop!" the collie said firmly, holding up his hand. He was winded, but coherent enough to remain in control and speak clearly, "Tell me why you're here, Scott."

Scott was absolutely exhausted, soaked at every point with sweat and gasping for breath while he stood hunched forward with his hands on his knees, barely supporting his shaking body.  
>"The Troubles killed me dad, and turned me mum in'tae a drug suckin' whore." he managed between great heaves for breath, "I've nowhere left tae go Sean, and I have tae do something."<p>

"But do you understand why I selected _you,_ out of the many thousands who call themselves GLA, to become a member of the Banshees?" Sean asked.

"I... I haven't the faintest idea..."

"Two reasons lad..."

Sean led the worn out terrier to a table in one corner of the basement/makeshift dojo, where there were a number of water bottles, and some other pieces of physical training equipment. Scot tore the cap off one on the water bottles and downed the cool refreshing liquid like it was the elixir of life.

"First:" the collie began, "You've got a good head on your shoulders, you're not a daft delusional _dolt,_ which means I'll be able to teach you... do a few stretches, I promise you'll feel better."

Once he had his fill of water and caught some of his breath, Scott began a series of dynamic stretches.

"Second:" Sean continued, "You've got the motivation, the will to do whatever it takes no matter what, which means you'll be willing to learn."

"But I haven't had any combat training or nothing–"

"I don't choose candidates for the Banshees based their skill." the collie cut him off, "Many who join up with the Gaedelic Liberation Army already have some combat training, but it gets in the way more often than not. They have to unlearn many lessons –taught to them by much harsher teachers than I– before they're ready to accept new and unusual concepts; the kind of concepts the GLA will need to implement if we hope to stand a spirit of a chance..."  
>Sean stepped away, back to the center of the room where he and Scott had fought minutes ago, and did a few stretches of his own.<br>"I chose you because you _don't_ have any prior practical training; because instead of breaking you down and trying to rebuild on an unstable foundation, you can be built fresh from the ground up, and so build yourself stronger, faster, better..."

The older collie assumed a fighting stance, and beckoned Scott toward him.

"Again!"

/

* * *

><p><em>Oh! then tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall, Where the gatherin' is to be?<br>In the ould spot by the river, Right well known to you and me.  
>One word more—for signal token Whistle up the marchin' tune,<br>With your pike upon your shoulder, By the risin' of the moon"..._

* * *

><p>

It was the same basement, but no longer empty. Instead, there were a couple long tables with chairs around, and these chairs were all occupied. Most of them were canids, of which many were terrier types– the usual demographic spread for the Gaedelic region. They were all dressed in a hodgepodge of military surplus, the only unifying factor between them all was a series of sewn-on patches, each depicting a red hooded figure with no face: the banshee.

Nervous whispers drifted through the room. None of them knew exactly why they were there. Some feared the worst, others were filled with nervous anticipation, and a few were hardened by their unrelenting determination.

After a few tense minutes, Sean O'Ferrall stepped out of a back room into the basement, with two masked figures trailing behind him, all wearing similar military style fatigues as "the Banshees", but with a different set of sewn-on patches.

"Good afternoon." the older collie said, addressing the room, "I imagine you're wondering why I gathered you here; I'll show you..."

Sean gestured his two masked followers into the back room, and they went. A few moments later, they returned wheeling a large man-sized object covered by a tarp into the basement, and set it on the floor next to Sean.

"_This,_ is what you will soon be up against..."

The collie tore the tarp off and flung it away, revealing a bulky suit of armor fitted to a mannequin. It was in pristine condition, painted all white with green highlights. The spaces between the plates were covered by a dense woven fabric material, possibly a variety of carbon fiber.

"This is a state-of-the-art SyntoMech T-5 Templar powered combat exoskeleton." Sean announced, and he slowly began to pace around the armor, "It was originally developed for military use and commercial security, but there weren't any takers due to its steep price. However, the Loyalist Resistance Force will be receiving a shipment of these within a month, courtesy of a wealthy anonymous supplier. We only barely managed to smuggle this set here from the manufacturer."

A worried murmur stirred up among the banshees. Sean let them continue, and simply positioned himself roughly three meteres from the armour, observing it with an interested eye.

"The plating is multi-layered high density silicon carbide and titanium alloy composite, built to withstand most contemporary small-arms–"  
>The black and white collie pulled out the blaster handgun on his hip, and fired several blaring blazing shots into to armour's chestpiece, which only produced a few scorched marks on the paint. Once the ringing in the room cleared away, he holstered his weapon and continued on.<br>"It is also highly resistant against physical impact and projectile rounds, up to the shells used in large caliber anti-materiel rifles."  
>He came alongside the armour and knocked his knuckles against the plate a few times.<br>"The sealed full-body casing provides more than ample protection against explosives and incendiaries, and the self-contained life-support suite makes it virtually impervious to chemical or biological attack."

"Then how the bloody hell are we supposed tae beat the damned thing?" Scott shouted, followed quickly by several interjections from many others in the room, all asking similar nervous questions.

One of the masked men came up to Sean O'Ferrall bearing a long, cloth covered package.  
>"You will beat it..." the collie reached under the fabric, "with <em>this.<em>" and pulled out what looked like an antique broadsword.

"He's joking, right?" Scott asked. The rest of the room's occupants were silent; either out of confusion or curiosity, but likely both.

"Heavy broadswords were used in times of antiquity as a means to combat plate armour." Sean explained, swinging the blade around in expert hands in a series a demonstrative flourishes, "With a good thrust, the blade's heavy mass concentrated at its sharp point could easily punch through the best armor of its time. This weapon utilizes the same concept, but updated for a modern age..."

The older collie twisted a small, near imperceptible dial at the sword's pommel, and quiet, low hum came out over the silence.

"Rragh!"

Sean thrust the humming sword at the bulky armor, and with a thunderous _crack_ and an agonized _screech,_ the sword skewered straight through the armor, peeling it open like it was nothing but a tin can.

/

* * *

><p><em>Out from many a mudwall cabin Eyes were watching thro' that night,<br>Many a manly chest was throbbing For the blessed warning light.  
>Murmurs passed along the valleys Like the banshee's lonely croon,<br>And a thousand blades were flashing At the risin' of the moon..._

* * *

><p>

The basement was almost completely empty, save for two people. One was encased in a brilliant white suit of T-5 Templar powered armor, scorched and nicked in a few places from recent combat. He wielded an assault rifle

"Sean O'Ferrall!" the armored figure called out through the speakers of his helmet. "Surrender yourself, and I assure you will be treated fairly and with dignity in our custody."

The older collie stood in the center of the empty basement, clothed in khaki colored military style fatigues, defiantly standing his guard against. The white

"Take your faux chivalry and stuff it up your arse!" O'Ferrall shot back

"So be it."  
>Armored warrior nodded solemnly, then brought up he assault rifle, aiming it squarely at the black-and-white collie.<br>"On behalf of the people of Gaedel, and all Corneria, you will answer for the blood shed by you and your band of treasonous terrorists."

"How _dare_ you try to perch up there on the moral high ground, and call _me _a terrorist!" Sean shouted back, glowering with every word, "_You,_ who just strapped on a few bits of metal and vaingloriously called yourself a _'Knight',_ and then butcher men and women in their homes– all of it in the name of a people and government that don't even support your fucked-up cause!"  
>He quickly checked out of the corner of his eye, in the dark shadows–<p>

"Enough!" the other yelled.

"_I_ speak for the people of Gaedel, and you're not about to shut me up!"  
>The fuming collie shot his arm out in front of him, gesturing the V sign at the armored figure as he gnashed his teeth.<br>"_Shaoráil go deo!_"

A blurred blue streak shot out from the shadow in the corner, and–

"Grraaagh!" the armored man's scream was barely heard over over the cracking rattling metallic squeal...

He fell backward, collapsing on the floor with a heavy _thud,_ revealing a black-clad Scott Aberdeen standing over him, holding a blood-smeared sword...

/

* * *

><p><em>There beside the singing river That dark mass of men was seen,<br>Far above the shining weapons Hung their own beloved green.  
>Death to ev'ry foe and traitor! Forward! strike the marchin' tune,<br>And hurrah, my boys, for freedom! T'is the risin' of the moon..._

* * *

><p>

The Troubles came to an end with the Aranburgh Agreement, when the Cornerian Parliament could no longer stand by while its citizens slaughtered each other, and finally intervened. In what became typical Cornerian political inventiveness, or conniving opportunism according to some, the Parliament took to neither side of the conflict, and absolved both the GLA and LRF of their crimes. In exchange however, both factions would have to integrate themselves into the Cornerian military.

The decision was not without controversy, as there were a great many who wanted justice dealt– a majority, in fact. The counterargument provided by the Cornerian Parliament claimed that both sides were simply acting out of fierce patriotism, if misguided. To punish either side would only further fuel outrage from the other, intensifying the violent bloodshed. Bringing them under official military control would instead "put a leash and collar" on the two factions, directing their talents and ingenuity toward greater and more productive causes.

Members of the the Gaedelic Liberation Army formed the Gaedelic Dragoon Guard: a light infantry unit that specialized in urban guerrilla warfare, and with astonishing success. Those among the Loyalist Resistance Force formed the Order of the Shield, reviving the old chivalric virtues of Corneria's past, and proving the effectiveness of powered armor as a viable tactical option.

Over time, the anger simmered down, and the Cornerian public came to appreciate the the results of the Aranburgh Agreement. Both factions ultimately benefited from the outcome; Sean O'Ferrall was even elected to the Cornerian Parliament shortly thereafter. Some however were not satisfied, or would rather not continue "shackled" by the government...

/

* * *

><p><em>Well they fought for poor old Ireland, And full bitter was their fate<br>(Oh! what glorious pride and sorrow fill the name of Ninety-Eight).  
>Yet, thank God, it still is beating; hearts in manhood's burning noon,<br>Who would follow in their footsteps, At the risin' of the moon!..._

* * *

><p>

Sean O'Ferrall stepped once more into the cleared basement where he and the GLA Banshees used to meet. The black-and-white collie was a little older now with the first few gray flecks beginning to show. Instead of military fatigues, he wore a conservative suit and necktie that he hadn't quite gotten used to wearing yet.

The sounds of several concussive thumps and thuds were heard, as well as the grunts and quick breaths of someone repeatedly striking a heavy punching bag. There was Scott Aberdeen, entirely alone in the empty basement, performing a series of hand-to-hand techniques, dressed again in the sleeveless t shirt and athletic shorts used for training. The dark terrier was in far better form now than when he first trained; his toned body was in far better shape physically, and his technique far more precise an in-control, delivering focused strikes with power and force...

"What are doing here?" Sean asked, stepping alongside the active terrier, "It's all been over for a while now, Scott. Didn't you join up with the Dragoons?"

"No..."  
>Scott paused in his routine –winded, but far from exhausted, and with a burning uncertainty in mind.<br>"Tell me it wasn't all for nothing."

"What?"

"The fighting and everything; tell me it wasn't all in vain."

"But it _was _all for nothing." Sean explained, "The whole bloody thing was a petty, bigotry fueled rampage; but that's exactly _why_ we fought."

The terrier cocked his head to the side in a quizzical look, "I don't understand"

"In a debate where your opponent uses arms and a brutish show of force, the only way we could respond at the time was in-kind..."  
>The older collier let out a tired sigh, remembering everything he and everyone else had done.<br>"It's all over and done now, we don't have to use violence anymore."

"But that's all I know." Scott appealed, "What am I supposed tae do now? I'm not any good at anything else."

"That's not something I can tell you, but..."  
>Sean reached into a pocket, and pulled out a small, finger-sized card.<p>

"What's that?"

"It's the key to an Axiom Tech Havoc class attack fighter, and I want you to have it." He handed the slim key to Scott, still speaking, "A mercenary who can fly will almost always be more successful than one who can't."

The terrier took the key, and looked it over a few times.  
>"A mercenary?"<p>

"If you'd like." Sean said with a shrug, "Do with it what you will– even _sell_ it for all I care– I don't have any use for it anymore as an honest, upstanding politician."

"That sounds like a paradox already." Scott chided with a chuckle.

"Oh, don't even get me _started_ on that subjuect..." The older collie said with a groan and rolling eyes, then shifted back into a more sober tone, "Listen, whatever you choose to do with my old Havoc, all I ask is that you use it to step out from the shadows of your past, and carve your a path of your own through this crazy life."

"_Shaoráil go deo._" Scott said with quiet, solemn reverence.

"Exactly." Sean responded.

/

* * *

><p>

_Author Notes:_

Okay, I promised myself I would never, ever, _ever_ use song lyrics in my writing. Well, so much for that then. The lyrics I used in this chapter come from an old Irish folk song, _The Rising of the Moon, _about the Irish Rebellion of 1798. In this case, I found it highly appropriate to the situation here.

Also, the phrase _"Shaoráil go deo"_ is old Irish, and translates roughly as "Freedom forever"

Well, that's that. As always, your feedback is most welcome.


	3. Soldier of Fortune

**運命の兵士**_**  
>Soldier of Fortune<strong>_

"Why do you believe you'll be a success in Caius Company tactical solutions?" the interviewer asked. He was a reddish, silky furred feline with scrutinizing eyes, dressed in a dark pinstripe suit. He sat at one side of a table in an ordinary room of an ordinary office building, with only a simple computer tablet on the tabletop that he occasionally made a note in.

James McCloud sat opposite the feline interviewer joins, dressed in the forest green service dress uniform typical of the Cornerian Armed Forces, with flight corp insignia for the rank of Senior Wingman.

It seems like such a simple question at first glance, but job interview process is anything but simple. The employer already knew James was perfectly qualified for the job, as they'd looked over the resume, consulted the references and performed a background check. At this point in the process, the company has a short list of qualified candidates, and is weeding out those who clash with the company culture, picking ot those select few who would fit in cleanly without friction.

To this end, James McCloud carefully sculpted his responses in order to make a better impression on the interviewer here, bluffing his way through the process.

"Because I'll get the job done, no matter what it is." James answered with conviction.

"The same can be said by members of our competitor firms, common guns for hire, and military soldiers..."  
>The brick red felid scanned McCloud with his piercing eyes, making not of every gesture, twitch and minuscule twitch of body language. It's not just about what the candidate says, but how he says it, and what he does whilst saying it that paint a picture of the fox's underlying psychology. Thus he probed deeper, asking key questions the answers and reactions to which would allow the feline to read the candidate's mind.<br>"Why have you chosen to pursue a career with Caius Company over other options, such as remaining among the Cornerian Armed Forces?"

This was another dig for a specific response, and James knew exactly what to provide.

"My service in the Cornerian Army and Academy training taught me how to harness my talents and use my skills, but I believe Caius Company is best situated to put them to good use, and stands to gain the most from it. With such promising potential, I'd be a shame to have such assets go to waste grinding away in the ranks of the military, or scrabbling among small-time mercenaries."

It was a highly tailored response, crafted specifically to kiss the company's ass while simultaneously putting James and his skills in the spotlight. Luckily he was backed up with enough solid credentials under his belt to get away with that kind of flaunting without seeming like a total fraud.

"Indeed..."  
>The interviewer was onto him, but the vulpine pilot was right, and he knew it. That sort of shrewd self-confidence could be useful, so long as it didn't degenerate into arrogance. He made a quick note in his tablet and moved on to another question; something that'd allow the candidate more time to speak for himself.<br>"In your own words, briefly tell me about your single most stressful experience during the Flight Academy program, and how you dealt with it."

/

* * *

><p>

The steady, comforting rumble of the engines ceased, and most of the lights in the cockpit went dim.

"_Shhhit..._"

James McCloud was at the controls of a fightercraft trainer. His flight instructor, a small sleek avian with deep indigo plumage, occupied the tandem seat just behind. They were high in the upper atmosphere of Katina, where the blue of sky and the black of space were nearly seamless. The trainer craft was still gaining a little altitude, but only from sheer momentum.

The avian flight instructor stated the obvious.  
>"McCloud, we've lost power–"<p>

"I know!"  
>The fox quickly ran through an internal checklist, eyes darting across displays and hands racing across instruments.<br>"The reactor's gone cold... We're down to just the reserve power cells..."

"Can you get the G-diffuser online?"

The craft's ascent crested, and seemed to hang in the air for an instant.

"It wouldn't do any good. There's not enough juice to stop or slow us down, we'd use up the cells almost instantly. Same goes for thrusters."

The trainer-craft began to slide downward through the air.

"Then there's nothing for it. I'm gonna bail us out–"

"If we bail now, it'll kill us! The thin atmosphere outside is gonna knock us unconscious, and we won't be able to pull our parachute ripcords–"

"And if we bail out too late, the impact of ejection at extreme speed will kill us anyway!"  
>The avian instructor leaned over Jame's pilot seat.<br>"We are going to take our chances with thin air... and that's an _order,_ McCloud."

The craft picked-up some speed.

"No."  
>James took a firm hold of the trainer craft's control stick, pushing it forward so the nose pointed down.<br>"I have an idea–"

"We are dropping like a goddamn _brick!_ We do _not_ have time for mid-fucking-flight repairs!"

The craft began to shake in the turbulence as they gained greater velocity, and the air gradually became more dense.

"You're right, we don't..."  
>With one hand on the control column and the other inputting commands into the on-board flight computer, the vulpine pilot elaborated further.<br>"I'm redistributing whatever power is left to the air breaks and maneuvering flaps. It'll be rough, but I should be able to glide this bird into an emergency landing–"

"You are out-of-line, Cadet! This is _insubordination!_"

For only a moment, James stopped his tinkering, and confronted his superior.  
>"Frankly Sir, between what few options we have left, which do <em>you<em> think has the least slim of chances?..."

They picked up even more speed, and the buckling became progressively more violent during their stony silence, rattling the trainer craft as it blundered through the air.

The avian looked outside, considered the options, and finally sided with the cadet.  
>"I'll tell ground-control what's happening, but this had better work..."<br>He checked his instruments.  
>"Scratch that, comm's out too."<p>

"I took all those peripherals offline to conserve energy– we'll need every scrap of power we can squeeze from the cells to bring us down in one piece. You can always chat it up with command when we're _not_ in deadly peril..." almost as an afterthought. "Sir."

The trainer-craft continued on a downward dive toward the distant surface, buffeting more and more violently as the air became denser and more tightly packed. Gently, James began to pull the control stick back. The plummeting craft shook even more, protesting the attempted change in direction with every creaking, twisting, clattering squeal of distressed machinery imaginable.

"Eeeasy, McCloud... these simple trainers weren't made for extremes like this, and you _really_ don't want the airflow control surfaces ripping themselves clean-off."

"I know what I'm doing."

The parched, dusty planet surface kept rising, and James kept pulling the trainer-craft's nose up toward the horizon. The instructor watched out of the canopy in horror as the dusty ground rushed past underneath, and getting closer...

"McCloud... air brakes."

Faster...

"They'll get shredded at this speed, and we'll plow straight into the ground."

Closer...

"If you brake _now,_ we can still bail-out!"

Faster...

"_No!_ We're going too fast! I've gotta pull her up!"

The flat landscape just below was nothing but a tan blur at their bulletlike velocity, and the trainer felt like it was trying to shake itself to pieces...

"It's not enough, McCloud. It's not _enough!..._ We are _dead!... _And it's all thanks to _YOU–_"

The ground was rising up from below to pulverize them...

"_Bullshit, Sir!_"

James yanked the control stick back as far as it would go. The nose jerked above the horizon, but they still careened toward the ground at a low angle. The phenomenal g-forces crushed the pilot and flight instructor into their seats, and the trainer-craft nearly came apart at the seams. The vulpine pilot checked how much power was left, and decided to risk it.

He fired a single burst of the craft's maneuvering thrusters. This would be cutting it _way _too close.

The trainer jerked forward a bit from the thrusters, finally gaining some altitude. The slight ascent slowed them down, and the shaking eased-up as the velocity was reduced below suicidal levels.  
>There was no way to know just how close they came, maybe it was better not to know...<p>

James still panted heavily, his heart still racing with leftover adrenaline.  
>"I'm... I'm putting the air-brakes on now..."<p>

The trainer-craft flinched at the shock of the air brakes, but wasn't threatening to go to pieces like before. The fox balanced the brakes along with stabilizers and maneuvering flaps in a battle against the craft's forward momentum. He was going to make this emergency landing as smooth as possible.

"Do you still wanna bail out, Sir?"

The avian flight instructor was similar state of shocked relief, and could care less.  
>"Just set her down nice and easy and be done with it."<p>

The trainer steadily slowed down and descended over Katina's surface under Jame's control.  
>"Brace for impact?"<p>

The swallow lazily assumed the proper 'crash' position.  
>"Sure, whatever."<p>

/

* * *

><p>

That'd be a good one for sure. It showcased all the traits they'd be looking for: decisiveness, quick thinking, ingenuity, and he didn't even have to fake that story...

The feline interviewer listened to McCloud's story from, catching on to all his little tics, habits and mannerisms. From his assessment, this candidate had been coached for the interview, or had ample practice with the job interview process. It was getting time to throw this cocky candidate a curveball to pop his bubble, and he knew just the thing that'd do it...  
>"It seems you underwent and extraordinary amount of combat training for a pilot, including high marks for marksmanship, close quarters combat, plus a variety of special tactics training. Would you mind explaining why you took on so much?"<p>

"As a combat pilot, I believe it's a good policy to be familiar with all aspects of conflict, to better know my place among it as a dedicated fighter pilot." James answered without a hitch,"That, and it also comes in handy more than you know."

It was a good answer, a practiced answer, but that was never the point of the question in the first place.

"Well..." the brick red feline exhaled a tired sigh and shook his head, "if that's the best answer you can give me..."

The interviewer waited for Jame's reaction. Most would've taken offense to such a response, or shrunken back sheepishly as if they'd done something wrong. McCloud on the other hand simply sat there patiently, waiting to tackle the next question that came his way. It was a good response, one that meant he's not one to get hung-up on trivial issues, and that he'll perform well under awkward situations.

"Okay, I think that's enough of this verbal poker game..."  
>The feline interviewer stood up from the table and scooped up his computer tablet, and in doing so produced a peculiar, perplexed look on Jame's face; like he hadn't been interview coached for something like this.<p>

"Relax kid, you got the job." the brick red feline said with and amused chuckle, "Welcome aboard the Caius Company crew!" and extended a welcoming hand to James McCloud.

/

* * *

><p>

"Goddammit, Jimmy! _Wake up!_"

"Mrrph–"

A sharp sensation stung Jame's face, and jostled him from sleep into a vague sate of awareness; someone slapped him hard across the face. Opening his eyes, the fox found his clenched fist to have drifted in the general direction of the loud obnoxious voice. Someone had grabbed hold of the outstretched fist however, and used it to hoist McCloud into an upright position. He was in his bed, in the city apartment he shared with his friend–

"You turned your alarm off in your sleep again, didn't you?..."

The dazed fox shook his head awake, and found Peppy Hare at his bedside, glaring back with that selfsame judgmental-seeming expression he'd come to identify with his friend. He always meant well, but he could also get in your face in the most obscene ways possible.

"Come _on_ Jimmy." the dusty gray hare scolded, "This is the day you ship out with the Amity, and you're supposed to have left for the spaceport almost an hour ago!"

At the mention of the Amity, the half asleep fox snapped into action. The sudden surge of energy came almost as if a switch had been flipped in Jame's body.

Without a word James sprung from the bed and tore open the dresser, throwing on a simple outfit faster than conceivably possible. All the while Peppy continued ranting on the fox's deaf ears as he bolted out his bedroom door into the rest of the apartment, and ultimately to the exit.

Amity. That was the name of a ship; a larger, semi-independent general purpose vessel that ran both cargo and passengers, and has been known to be hired for special contracts. The captain of the Amity had hired Caius Company for additional fighter escort and security detail for a run into less-than-safe territory. Specifically, the Amity was going to make the long run, and sometimes hazardous run to Cerinia. The exact details were still a little foggy, but the ship was to leave today, and fairly soon...

Faster than anyone had any right to expect, James McCloud had scrambled out of his apartment building and onto the busy city street outside. The noise, the rush of moving people, and general life of the city greeted him, but the fox took no time to dwell upon it all. He went straight to the edge of the street and scanned the many vehicles that went past, until he spotted a taxi and flagged down as it came past.

The hovering taxicab pulled alongside James, and he quickly stepped inside and seated himself in the back seat.

"Where to?" asked a suspiciously familiar voice. The cab driver turned to look at her passenger, revealing the smug face of Rachelle Cooney.

"Gha!" the fox flinched hard, nearly jumping out of his seat from surprise, "How did you–"

"Pardon me..."  
>The rear door near James had flung open again, and Rick Cooney clambered into the cab with James, settling into an empty seat before closing the door behind him.<br>"Do you mind if we share?" the raccoon asked, then quickly turned to the driver without waiting for a response. "I think we were headed for the spaceport if I remember right."

"Sure thing." Rachelle replied with an easy nod, and pulled the taxicab into the flow of traffic.

It took a few moments for James recover from sudden and bizarre turn of events, and finally get a question in.  
>"Is this some sort of <em>joke?<em>" he demanded, rightfully irritated.

"Nope." Rachelle answered quickly, "But you should've _seen_ the look your face anyway; _priceless._"

"We just dropped by to wish you luck on your first big assignment with the Company," the next part of Rick's sentence took on a significantly grimmer tone. "and to warn you..."

The twins never bothered with pranks and theatrics for their own sake, even if they reveled in it. Knowing at least the general gist of their grim cloak-and-dagger careers, they likely had to take the precious few laughs wherever they could find them.

After a few moments of these thoughts, James collected himself, and resumed his usual sober, practically deadpan demeanor.  
>"Fine, so warn me then."<p>

Rick gave a quick acknowledging nod, "The Amity is going to come under attack while out on this run."

"That's why the captain hired Caius Company." James responded with his solid confidence, "We can fight."

The raccoon shook his head dryly; It was exactly the answer he expected.  
>"It's not just pirate rabble coming after the ship out there. We've been informed that the Amity has been targeted by Harrow..."<p>

_Harrow._

The word was an alias used by a loose collection of bandits and outlaws bound together; a cult united and strengthened by their collective anonymity. Their motives, much like their exact identities, have always been muddled in mystery. Some claim Harrow to be little more than a simple anarchist terrorist group, others consider it a puppet organization with other untold motives, or just an umbrella term for a pool of black market personnel and resources at the disposal of the highest bidder. The only widely known certainty about Harrow is that the attacks and activities attributed to the group have always been fast, efficient, and absolutely ruthless.

"We weren't supposed to tell you anything about this in the first place," Rick continued, "but we've never really been one to stick to–"

James cut him off, "What does Harrow want with the Amity?"

"No idea," Cooney supplied with a shrug, "but I intend to find out."  
>Simply by his nature, there was no way to know if he was being completely honest or not. If he knew more, he wasn't going to tell; if he didn't, he wasn't going to let on.<p>

"Do the authorities know about this? Or the Amity's captain?" the fox asked, "Does _anyone_ else know?"

"They _can't _know, Jim." Rick explained, not entirely comfortable with the answers he gave, "This attack is the first opportunity that's come in a very long time to get at Harrow, and we can't blow it by tipping tipping them off to the whole situation. The network of informants they have is nothing short of mind-boggling, penetrating deep into Lylat Interpatrol, and we suspect they have spies planted aboard the Amity to help coordinate the coming attack. I'm already running a risk simply by telling you–"

"Then why tell me at all?"

"Because I am _not_ some heartless, amoral, intelligence spook." Rick insisted, almost seeming offended, "Because I'd rather you know what's coming now than to have you demand _'Why the hell didn't you tell me?'_ when it's all over. I'm doing you a _huge_ favor by telling you this, Jim."

James McCloud was silent again, gazing out the taxicab's window as the city flowed past outside, gradually thinning as they traveled into the city suburbs. It wasn't clear whether he was giving Rick the cold shoulder, preoccupied with his thoughts, or simply indifferent to the raccoon's impassioned speech.

"You're going to get hit hard out there, harder than you'll be expected to survive from," Rachelle added, filling in the awkward silence from the driver's seat, "but you'll have backup."

"Who from?" James asked in a monotonous, possibly thoughtful tone.

"Let's just say, some old friends." Rick answered, glancing at James. "You didn't think we were just going to let Harrow's attack happen without a response planned, did you?"

The fox remained quiet, and to most he would've appeared not to react, as if he didn't give a single care about what was happening. In the keen, practiced eyes of Rick Cooney however, he saw James take a long, controlled breath as well as his limbs releasing pent-up tension he relaxed; _like a soldier, _Rick realized. McCloud was trained as a soldier, had a natural knack for it, and he'd do his duty right through the very worst of it. In his own solemn way, this silent treatment was how his appreciation came out, even if he didn't know it himself...

"Here we are..." Rachelle announced, "Corneria City Spaceport."

A few moments later, the taxicab came to a stop outside a large terminal building, even busier than the thickest streets of the city's downtown. James quickly opened the door nearest to him, letting a great wash of sound flood inside. Somewhere a dry mechanical voice announced something amidst the clamor of vehicles and countless people going about their business.

"Stay sharp out there, Jim." Rick said, holding Jame's attention for only a moment.

The fox just gave Rick a curt nod, and stepped out of the taxi before disappearing into the writhing mass of bustling pedestrians at a brisk walking pace.

/

* * *

><p>

Author Notes:

And we're finally up to the "present date" for this story arc, and there's more than a little foreshadowing going on of course.

In my interpretation of James McCloud, for now at least, I'm sticking more or less with the "quiet man who doesn't say much" mystique that is so often attributed to this character. I can't guarantee it'll stay that way though –well made characters evolve over time– this is simply my starting point.

As always, your feedback is most welcome here.


	4. White Knights and Black Bags

**黒い鞄と白い騎士**_**  
>White Knights and Black Bags<strong>_

Six figures sat around a table in the Amity's mess deck...

Traversing across the vast empty reaches of deep space between star systems was always at least a several week affair, if not more, depending on the power and precision of the ship's jump drive. This simple fact of interstellar travel gave everyone aboard the ship an extraordinarily ample supply of time, and very little to do with it. Engineers could usually busy themselves babysitting the ship's systems, making sure the engines and jump drive didn't overheat and other such, but everyone else had to have their own pastime to ward off cabin fever.

"Gamma group..."  
>The speaker was a rough lizard with deep orange scales, and several almost beard-like spines lining his face. It gave him a serious, decisive appearance, complimented completely by his quick yet steady voice.<br>"One bogey coming straight at you: what's your move?"

"Split up..."  
>The answering figure was a sturdy, tough-built mostly white furred canid with a distinct arching muzzle, and black patch of fur around one eye. He spoke with the impression of someone who'd been doing this for a while<br>"Circle around and initiate a weave defense."

"Agreed." James said with a quick nod. He was sitting right next to the relaxed Canid.

"Bogey pursues Malloy," the reptile continued, "dives away from McCloud's counterattack: what's your move?"

"Roll out and pursue." the white canid– Malloy– responded wearily.

"Go high, look for bogey's countermaneuver." the fox finished, "Be ready to jump in if he slips away."

"Bogey neutralized."  
>The bearded lizard gave Malloy and McCloud a quick nod, and turned to another pair further around the round table.<br>"Beta group, two bogeys make a sweep for the Amity at 10 o'clock low headed your way: what's your move?"

"Fly at bogeys guns blazing..."  
>She was a great, powerfully built ursine, looming over everyone else at the table.<br>"Force a split or take them out."

"Follow Su at two seconds flight distance."  
>He was the smallest figure at the table; a blue and white plumed avian, who seemed even smaller<p>

"First bogey splits away, second bogey passes Dodge: what's your move?" the reptile supplied.

"Pursue first bogey." the bear– Su– answered without a second thought.

"Open fire on second bogey, pass into a J-trun and pursue if he's not destroyed." the avian– Dodge– continued, making each decision carefully, "Otherwise, continue straight and assist Kodiak."

"Bogeys neutralized."

"Alpha group..."  
>Malloy spoke now, looking across the table at the orange scaled lizard.<br>"Three bogeys, first and second in tight formation, third lagging behind, what's your move?"

"Roll away from tight two." the reptile replied, "Pursue lone bogey, firing on approach."

The sixth and final figure, who'd been silent up until now, was a slender -weasel who seemed to be constantly shifting in his seat and glancing around.  
>"Fly at the tight pair, guns blazing."<p>

"Second bogey splits off pursuing Commander Memo." Su continued, "First bogey passes Rudy."

"Yo-yo to pursue second bogey." the bearded lizard– Memo– replied quickly.

"Third bogey rolls away into pursuing Rudy." James adds in, "First bogey pitches back."

"Lag roll to pursue third bogey." the weasel – Rudy– responds.

"Second and third bogeys neutralized." Dodge fills in, "First bogey pursues Memo."

"Form up and initiate weave defense." The reptile

"Agreed." Rudy nodded.

"First bogey pursues Memo, Rudy counterattacks." Malloy concluded, "Bogey neutralized."

This is more or less what the trip had become for them.

Commander Panos Agamemnon, or "Memo" as he came to be known, ran daily verbal drills with his squad: two hour sessions, three sessions a day. Over the course of a single week's worth of this treatment, the fighter squad from Caius Company became so attuned to one another as to anticipate each member's response several steps ahead. Next to running live flights, or even flight-sim practice, verbal drilling sessions was the best they could do under the circumstances; if not to keep their reflexes sharp, then at least keep their minds prepared.

Sometimes they drilled in the Amity's mess like now, sometimes in the hangar amongst their company fightercraft while performing maintenance, sometimes in the lounge, and if the claims from the Amity's Captain were to be believed, then sometimes they even drilled aloud in their sleep. Wherever it happened, the squad's rapid clockwork recitations would occasionally draw an audience, fascinated by back-and-forth patter of aviation jargon.

"Any fool can jump into a cockpit and pull a trigger," Memo would tell those who asked why they kept drilling, "It's tight, intuitive unit cohesion that separates poor fighter pilots from capable ones, and dead ones from live ones, and your lives subsequently if it comes to it." at which point, the observers usually slink back sheepishly.

Commander Agamemnon paused a while, eyes scanning around his squad's table for a moment  
>"That's enough for now." the bearded lizard said in a dry, almost mechanical sounding voice, "We'll meet in the hangar at sixteen-hundred hours for a maintenance check and another session."<p>

With Memo's dismissal, the squad got up from the table, and many of them dispersed to do whatever it was they felt the need to do. Malloy got to James

"Hey McCloud." the cnaid said, getting his attention.

"Yeah?"

"See that pretty thing of a vixen over there?"  
>Malloy cocked his head in the direction of a nearby table where some others sat.<br>"She has been _seriously_ checking you out the last few sessions, maybe longer."

"Really?" the fox asked, taking a quick look over at the table. Among them was a younger copper furred vixen sitting at the table, appearing hopelessly bored as she held up her head with elbows on the table.

Among the more regular audiences that the squad sometimes got was a loose gaggle of people that turned out to be a field crew from Lylat Tribune news. They were sent to Cerinia to shoot some footage, do a few interviews, and whatever else they do on location. The crew had a shuttle parked in the Amity's main hangar, but that kind of craft was hopelessly underpowered and understocked to make the long journey to Cerinia. So naturally, they hitched a ride with the Amity on one of its Cerinia Sauria runs.

"She just sits there and stares at you while we drill, ignoring everyone else at her table." Malloy explained further...

The crew from Lylat Tribune news were right there in the mess with the Caius Company squad, occupying a nearby table, numbering roughly a half-dozen. A few were trying desperately to strike up conversation at the table, but by now they'd probably exhausted all topics and were getting bored of each other's company.

"Can't say I blame her," James agreed as he looked over the table, "these long-haul milk runs are boring as–"

Both Jame's and Malloy's comms buzzed in their pockets, signaling an incoming call, which the two of them answered.

"Change in plans, gthe Captain has just put us on standby. " Commander Memo's cold, dry voice announced over the channel. "Meet up in the hangar immediately."

Just as suddenly as he called on them, the reptilian commander's voice cut out at the end of his communication; typical of him–

"_The Amity is going to come under attack..."_

The fox's heart skipped a few beats, Rick's warning ringing fresh in his mind's ear. He knew beyond a doubt this is when Harrow would strike.

"Shame." Malloy said with a slightly disappointed sigh as replaced his comm, "She looked looked like such a good prospect too."

The news crew group had all gotten up from their table and made their way to the exit. Among them was the copper furred vixen Malloy had pointed out, going right along with her home group to wherever they were heading next. For a brief moment however, James was certain she looked back through her curious emerald eyes, at him–

"_The Amity is going to come under attack..."_

The fox caught himself staring, and tore his fixated gaze away from her with a shake of his head.  
>"Maybe later." he blurted out.<p>

"Hey, you alright McCloud?" Malloy asked, "You look like you've seen a ghost or something."

"Just a little nervous about this." James answered truthfully, "I'll be fine." he added, both to reassure Malloy and himself.

/

* * *

><p>

Captain Jacob Saru stepped through the sliding door onto the Amity's bridge, forcing his posture to remain in an upright position to preserve at least a bare semblance of presentability. He was a roughly mid-aged silvery haired ape, who in his current drab appearance didn't seem like a commanding type at all. At the moment, the only feature that confirmed his status as Captain instead of a tired passenger was a command headset jammed lopsidedly against his head, which Saru occasionally tapped and spoke into.

"Alright, I've put the flyboys on standby." the simian captain groaned to the bridge crew, "Now will somebody tell me why we've stopped?"

"See for yourself, Captain..."  
>The crewman who spoke nodded out of the front viewport from behind his station. When the captain stepped forward and saw what was out there, the ape's naturally reddish skin went a few shades more pale...<p>

Some ways in front of the Amity was the darkened, hulking form of another ship, or at least what had once been a ship. There was no sunlight in deep-space, and the hopelessly distant stars only offered the faintest light. Only by the massive floodlights built into the Amity could the shape be discerned. The drifting, off-kilter derelict was pockmarked with several breaches, gaping wounds where the metal hull peeled away from the ship's framework like a fruit skin, exposing the decks and once-functioning compartments inside.

It was silent, cold, and not simply by of the vacuum of space or the absence of a sun. There was no comm signal or any signal transmission, no heat from its lifeless reactor or other backup systems, no light from the darkened windows, and no movement beyond the occasional piece of orbiting debris. On close enough inspection, some of the floating pieces turned out to be bodies; beings killed and forever preserved, frozen in their final moments of terror by the ever pervasive nothingness that is the vacuum of space.

"It must be the Sojourn." the crewman stated in a chilled, icy voice as he gazed over the dead ship. "She never made it back from Cerinia, and now we see why."

"How long will it take to calculate a new jump solution?" Captain Saru asked, his voice choppy, sounding more forced than he first thought.

"For a shot to Cerinia? Could be a few hours–"

"That's too long." the captain interrupted, "Just get us out of here– anywhere– do the jump blind."

"It'll still take about a half hour to reset the jump drive."

"Start on it now, and make the jump as soon as you can..."  
>Though frightened to his very core, the fearful tension seemed to reignite Captain Saru's long dormant authority. When he looked out, it was with a cold and calculating gleam, but glazed over with an inescapable sense of dread.<br>"I don't like this."

/

* * *

><p>

In a mere manner of minutes, the Caius Company squad had changed out of casual clothing into their uniform flight suits. They were all scattered throughout the Amity's main hangar deck, where six identical fightercaft sat lined up in a neat row. Each pilot attended to their own craft, running through a pre-flight checklist and performing any necessary maintenance as it turned up.

The fighters were Fortuna Foundries Tatpara-27, a highly versatile craft with powerful engines and equally powerful armament, designed to hit fast and hit hard; ideal traits for the quick-deploy escort role as was the case aboard the Amity.

James McCloud sat in the cockpit of one Tatpara-27, the control panel in front of him alive and lit-up with the fighter's avionics suite. And the pilot's headset wrapping around his head spoke with the voices of his squadmates.

"The captain is a little spooked by the shipwreck obstructing the route, causing our sudden drop from warp." Commander Agamemnon informed over the comm to his squad, "He wants us out there to cover the Amity while she resets her jump-drive."

"So we're like what, a _security blanket _for a scared little kid?" Malloy asked, bordering on a tone of mockery.

"More like an insurance policy, Malloy." Memo retorted with his usual cold, even voice, "Pirate activity is known to occur along the Cerinia/Sauria route."

"At least they're paying for this security blanket." another squad member chimed in, without much response.

"All craft ready for launch?" Commander Agamemnon asked with a tone of formality.

The reptilian received his response in a small chorus of affirmatives from the other members of the squad, and all the canopies of the Caius Company fighters sealed shut in anticipation.

"Head out."

The fighters all lifted off the hangar deck, and taxied their way toward the containment barrier that separated the inside of the hangar from the speckled black nothing of space; all but one fighter that is.

Jame's fighter remained airborne for about a second, before a sharp _crack_ from deep within the Tatpara-27 shook the craft to its core, and dropped back to the deck. Thankfully the landing gear was still deployed, and prevented any structural damage...

"McCloud? What's your status?" Memo inquired while the rest of the squad passed outside.

"The reactor regulator just blew-out!" the fox answered as his hands feverishly flew over his control panel, "I don't understand, I checked everything, and–"

"I don't need excuses, McCloud." the reptilian commander interrupted, but his voice didn't have any trace of annoyance, just decisiveness. "I need you to address the issue promptly, and then join us as quickly as you can. You can give me a formal debriefing later."

"Yeah, yeah."

/

* * *

><p>

Commander Agamemnon watched intently as James McCloud closed out of the squad's channel. The young fox was nervous, it showed, and this was his first major assignment as a part of Caius Company. The reptilian commander was not especially annoyed or angered by this snag, though he had every right to be, he simply curious. It was never about whether one fails or not– failure is an eventual inevitability that everyone must face. What truly mattered is how one dealt with failure when they are confronted with it. The actions taken in response to failure will tell infinitely more about an individual than any measure of unimpeded success.

The dead wreck of the came quickly into view as the squad cleared the Amity, the drifting husk of the Sojourn hanging over the scene like a bad omen.

"Anyone else got a sick feeling about all this?" Dodge asked over the squad's comm, clearly nervous.

"Only from the slop they serve up in the galley." Malloy chided back, but even he sounded somewhat uneasy behind his sarcasm.

"Contact!" Su, the ursine announced urgently, "We have a contact!"

Sure enough, a single craft emerged from the drifting wreck. It was a light freighter of simple design, but painted completely in matte black with no identifying markings whatsoever. If it weren't for the fighters' scanning equipment and HUD displays, the craft just might've gone completely unnoticed, disappearing amidst the black void of space. But the freighter instead rode out to meet the squad with confidence, and for all intents and purposes, didn't really pose much of a threat.

Commander Agamemnon opened up a hailing channel.  
>"Unknown craft, identify yourself immediately."<p>

Silence.

"Identify yourself," Memo repeated firmly, "or we will fire upon you as per Interpatrol protocol–"

He was cut off by a sharp hiss of static, joined quickly by the clamor of alarms, and a squealing clattering cacophony from deep within the belly of his Tatpara-27 fightercraft. The reptilian commander scrambled to begin a diagnostic check; reactor regulator blown out, fuel leak, generator overload–

Cutting through everything else came a voice; a malevolent, vicious voice that came from simultaneously from everywhere at once, and nowhere at all.

_We are Harrow_

There was a brief, brilliant burst of white light, and then there was nothing.

/

* * *

><p>

James McCloud stood next to the crippled Tatpara-27 inside the Amity's hangar. There was a tool kit by his feet, an access panel at the rear of the fighter flipped open, and the fox's arms buried elbows deep inside the machine's inner workings, probing the great machine for answers. He found that answer, and stopped frozen in horror before slowing drawing back and away from the craft.

The damage to the fighter's reactor regulation circuits had all the signs of a tiny explosive charge, no larger than a landmine's detonator. The hole in the metal casing box had either flash-melted, or peeled away from the detonation point, and the sensitive monitoring equipment inside reduced to useless slag.

It was sabotage.

"_...we suspect they have spies planted aboard the Amity to help coordinate the coming attack."_

Jame's heart started to pound faster, and breath seized up altogether. He glanced around the hangar bay, assessing his immediate surroundings: several shuttles and smaller spacecraft, mostly belonging to some of the Amity's passengers. Hangar control booth sat perched where it always was.

The fox reactivated the comm in his headset, and called out his warning.  
>"Commander Agamemnon..."<p>

The call was answered only by the hiss of static. James expanded the frequency range of his headset to include the full spectrum of comm channels.

"This is James McCloud of Caius Company." he tried again, "Can anyone read me?"

Nothing...

All the frequencies were being jammed, making the headset useless for communication. The fox's anxious hand dropped down to the handgun holster clinging to his thigh for dear life. He looked to hangar control again, there was an intercom system in there he could use to contact the Amity's captain and crew, assess the situation, and make preparations if need-be.

Armed with a plan, James opened a storage compartment in the hull of the crippled Tatpara-27, from which he extracted an assault carbine and a few extra mags. Just as he was about to head toward Hangar control, something streaked past the hangar, outside the containment barrier. It might've been another spacecraft, it might've been the shadows playing an illusion, or it might've been all in his head.

Whatever the case was, he wasn't going to be distracted by it, not now. What was more troubling than something suspicious happening, however, was the list of things not happening. There was no alarm that should've sounded at the first sign of trouble, there was no announcement over the shipwide PA system to update their status, and the hangar manager hadn't emerged from the control booth to ascertain James' situation as would have been normal if wireless comm was rendered unusable.

"_...we suspect they have spies planted aboard the Amity to help coordinate the coming attack."_

Rick's warning rang all the more clear in the fox's head as he came to the entrance to hangar control, and punched in the access code that would allow him inside.

The door opened on the control booth, and an eerie silence was all there was to greet him on the other side. The consoles were all still active, the gentle whir and hum of the equipment carrying on without a single care, but there was no one to watch over it all, as there was supposed to.

Carbine at the ready, James slowly entered the control booth, located the primary console and activated its intercom function, selecting the bridge. The console obeyed, but a response from the bridge did not arrive. The screen simply read [Stand By]...

[Stand By]...

[Stand By]...

[Stand By]...

Finally, the simian face of the Amity's captain appeared on the console's screen.

"Captain Saru, this is James McCloud of Caius Company–"

"Where is chief Mathis?" the ape asked coldly, far more forced than James knew the captain was normally

"Hangar control is deserted, and the comm is noised out" the fox answered, "What's the situation, Captain?"

"Under control..."  
>He was lying for sure, but clearly not by choice.<br>"The... communications malfunction is nothing to worry about. It's probably just a radiation leak from the wreck interfering with the signal–"

"Another ship just dropped in!" a voice from off-screen shouted.

"What?"

There were a few scrambling figures in the background, but impossible to make out clearly.

"They're powering up weapons!"

"Evasive action, or something! Get this tub moving–"

A massive jolt sent the floor beneath James careening to one side, throwing him clear off his feet like a rag-doll. An agonized metallic scream ripped through the ship's bulkheads and structure, the Amity's cry of pain in response to attack; weapons fire. This was quickly joined by the wail of alarms, and another sound: a grunt of pain and a _clack_ of a weapon hitting the ground, and neither were Jame's.

The fox lay sprawled on the floor of hangar control, his assault carbine knocked a couple meters out of reach. He looked up at the source of the other noises, and found a bleach-white wolf laying on his side, very close, and a handgun on the floor out of reach. The two exchanged a furious glare for a moment, and sprung into action.

James scrambled to his feet, drawing his blaster handgun out of the hip holster and arming it. But by the time he was ready to fire, the would-be lupine assassin had already flipped expertly up onto his feet and was making a run for it. McCloud managed to fire a few shots at the retreating figure, but they all missed, and he made it out the door. James started to pursue, but stopped short, seeing something even more alarming develop–

Outside the control booth window, in the hangar itself, a shuttle was just pulling into the hangar. It was a sturdy, robust model, armed a set of forward-firing heavy laser cannons and a dorsal mounted turret that swiveled around searching for a target. The newcomer craft quickly set down on the deck, next to the crippled Tatpara-27 fighter. A small group soon emerged thereafter, too distant to make out clearly, and headed for the exit.

With only a moment's hesitation, James scooped up the assault carbine and headed for the hangar bay. The blaring alarms and flashing warning lights continued on throughout, flooding the short run to the hangar with a disorienting cascade of sounds and light. He did his best to focus though, ignoring the extra noises, disregarding the flash of warning lights. Otherwise, there was little trouble returning to the hangar deck entrance.

The fox punched the 'open' command into the door's panel, and it slid open obediently–

* _Boom! _*

James ducked to the side, and a spray of metal pellets from the shotgun blast splattered against the wall opposite the door. By all rights he should've been killed by an ambush like that, which meant–

"The next one's not gonna be a warning shot!" A voice shouted from inside the hangar. It was male, a little higher pitched, but not at all young.

Adrenaline rushing and heart racing, the fox focused in on the tactical choices. He crept out and aimed the assault carbine around the corner–

a hand shot out from the other side of the corner to grab the carbine's barrel, yanking it forward and James with it. The weapon spewed a stream of shots as it was pulled forward, and ultimately out of the fox's hand before skidding away on the hangar deck. In the same instant came an hard impact in Jame's gut that knocked the wind out of him, making him keel forward at the sudden shock.

He didn't even have a chance to recover, as a moment later, another bow hammered down on the fox's back like a pile-driver between the shoulder blades, sending James sprawling onto the floor. Then a weight came down on top of him, pinning him face-down to the ground, while the razor-sharp edge of a blade jammed itself under his neck, sealing the deal.

"Hold it!" the first voice shouted again.

A series of heavy footfalls came closer and closer across the deck, from the direction of the voice. The angle Jame's head was forced into only allowed him to see the metal hangar deck floor. In a few moments though, he could see the edge of a black, ankle-length coat floating mere inches above the ground, and a pair of heavily reinforced boots inside it, which came to a stop just in front of the fox's nose.

"You're the McCloud kid, right?" the voice asked from above.

"What's it matter to you?" James managed to spit out from his helpless position.

"Name's Adrian Crane, and the Cooneys send their regards..." and a plumed avian hand reached down, open to the fox. "Let him go, Chakori."

"_You're going to get hit hard out there, harder than you'll be expected to survive from . . . but you'll have backup." _

The blade retreated from his throat, and the weight that was pinning him down lifted away. James grabbed the hand held out to him, and hoisted himself onto his feet.

Adrian Crane turned out to be a very slim blue-gray avian with long, white, hair-like plumage running down from his head, gathered in a rough ponytail. He wore a long black ankle-length coat with several pockets and a pair of heavy black boots. Over his left forearm was an advanced wrist-mounted computer attached like a bracer, and on his was a comm headset with partial HUD capabilities. The avian also had a wicked looking combat shotgun slung over one shoulder, and what appeared to be handgun sidearm in a belt-holster inside his coat.

"To be honest, I thought we were gonna bump into you outside, flying around in that sucker." Adrian thumbed over his shoulder at the crippled Tatpara-27.

"The reactor regulator's been slagged by a small explosive charge, just before takeoff..."  
>The fox looked back at his fighter, and thought he saw someone moving behind it.<br>"I'm thinking sabotage."

"The rest of your squad is gone; nothing but torn-apart wrecks." a woman's voice filled-in, somewhat affected in an exotic Fortunan accent, "Regulators destroyed mid-flight would have done it..."

The other figure, Chakori as she was called, stepped around in front of James. She was a fierce looking ash-gray leopardess who wore a set of sturdy combat fatigues, including some lightweight body armor. She was just sheathing a heavy, forward deflected knife back into its scabbard, but also carried a modular assault rifle strapped tight across her back, and a handgun in a military-style thigh holster.  
>"By Karma, it seems you were spared from their fate."<p>

"Karma, or a lousy detonator mechanism..."  
>Adrian turned over his shoulder toward the shuttle he came in on, and called out to someone behind him.<br>"Hey! Pigma!"

"Yo!" a young voice responded, ringing trough the hangar bay.

A portly pink-skinned figure then scurried out from the two spacecraft parked side-by-side. He was young, terribly young, too young to be involved in any of this by most standards, but there he was nonetheless. The round-faced swine wore a cargo vest, toting a bursting-full tool kit by a shoulder strap, its many contents rattling and jingling as he ran across the hangar deck.

"Pigma, this is James McCloud. James, Pigma Dengar, and you've already met Chakori Uncia–"  
>Adrian ran through the names quickly, making a quick sweeping gesture as he did.<br>"Formal introductions are gonna have to wait; change in plans." The dark-clad avian turned away from James as he gave instructions to Pigma, "See what you can do about McCloud's ride. We'll need it later."

"The T-27? I already got a quick look at it, should be a snap." He turned to James, "Say, where do you guys keep spare parts for those birds around here?"

James eyed the enthused swine with a curious eye –somewhere between bewildered and suspicious– and answered, "They're... in the machine shop at the other end of the hangar..." he pointed the location out, "look for the bins labeled _CC, T-27_."

"Say no more, man. I'll have your bird flight-savvy before ." And as quickly as he showed up and popped in, Pigma left for the Hangar machine shop.

"Come on, McCloud." Adrian headed for the exit, gesturing for James to follow, "We don't have a whole lot of time, and looks you'll get to help out–"

Something hard nudged against Jame's arm. He turned to see what it was, and found Chakori holding the assault carbine out to him.  
>"You may want this." she said while James took his weapon back. "May fortune favor you."<p>

"Sure, thanks." He simply gave the ashen leopardess a quick nod of acknowledgement, and continued on his way.

Adrian stood impatiently at the hangar entrance, waiting for the fox to join him. When he did, the avian unslung the combat shotgun, prepared it, and started down the corridor with James in tow.  
>"The op is simple: we get to ship's computer mainframe, and then I hack into it."<p>

"So what happens after that?"

"Eh..." Adrian replied with a shrug,"It depends, really–"  
>He cut himself short, and held a couple fingers up to his headset, listening.<br>"And speaking of: Scott just took out the jamming array outside. Lets get you patched in..."

/

* * *

><p>

Captain Saru was bound and gagged, tied to one of the chairs on the Amity's meager bridge. Two others scrambled frantically from station to station. One was an ordinary canid with a dark muzzle and face-fur ranging between shades of black, brown and goldenrod; the other was of a brutish Saurian race, sharpclaw tribe by the look of him. Both were armed with blaster handguns, and wore ordinary civilian clothing, though the Saurian's outfit didn't seem to fit quite right–

The bridge's comm monitor started flashing and chiming, alerting to an incoming hail.

"Answer it..." the canid instructed, arming his weapon and bringing it to bear on Captain Saru.

The larger saurian shuffled over to the comm monitor, and brought up the main screen in the front of the bridge.

"Hello there. How are you?" an older ram greeted, the russet fur of his rugged face seeming to have grayed over some time, "I'm Malcolm Aries, captain of this vessel Cerberus. Would one of you fine gentlemen mind telling me who's in charge here?..."  
>He looked to the Canid holding the simian captain at gunpoint.<br>"Is it you?"

"Why the hell did you fire on us?" he snarled back.

"That is a wonderfully simple question, but with an unfortunately complicated answer that I'm not at liberty to tell you anything about."

The canid jammed his handgun against Saru's skull, fuming at the ram's answer.  
>"I will execute every pitiful soul aboard this ship if you don't–"<p>

"Hey, buddy, why don't you take a good look at me; not on your comm monitor there, out the viewport. That's right..."  
>The sinister mass of Cerberus gently rose up just outside the main bridge viewport, staring down the Amity with its huge, oversized plasma cannon.<br>"If you and I are going to start swapping threats, then... you see this little old plasma cannon here? It just tore up your engines like a scrap of tissue paper, and it's more than capable of tearing up the rest of the Amity with just a few extra shots. Go ahead: shoot up the entire population aboard, and I'll shoot up that ship with you and your cronies aboard."

"You don't care about the innocent lives aboard?" the canid asked, suspicious, "You don't care if I kill them?"

"If I cared about the _people _aboard, I wouldn't have shot you up in the first place." Malcolm answered, "It's just a hell of a lot easier to deal with you all while you're alive and kicking and the ship's in one piece instead of sifting through a busted up husk like you got out here."

"You have _no_ claim to this ship!" the Saurian butted in, "We were here first!"

"And I'm one button away from sending you to the _afterlife_ first." Malcolm twirled an index finger in the air before bringing it to a stop, pointing at the canid through the comm monitor, "So I'd recommend a swift reconsideration of your position if you want to make it out of this breathing."

The mottled canid gestured to his reptilian colleague to calm down, then returned his attention to the ram.  
>"Maybe... we can come to some sort of deal." he postulated over the comm, "We can all walk away from this alive, and richer, if we cooperate."<p>

"That's the spirit!" Malcolm cheered, then switched into a serious, more demanding tone "First off: you can take whatever list of demands you think you have, and stuff them up your tailpipe. You won't need them."

The canid nodded with a reluctant grunt, "Done–"  
>He was cut off abruptly when the saurian stepped in, and whispered something in his ear. His expression changed from irked and frustrated, to outraged and fuming.<br>"You sent a party aboard!"

"And what if I did?" the older ram replied with a shrug "What're you gonna do about it?"

The brutish saurian leered back through the comm, gnashing his sharp teeth as he spat out, "When I get my claws on those brats you sent aboard, I will make them, and you, regret ever having the idiotic _gall_ to interfere with Harrow."

Outside the main bridge viewport, a glint of metal swooped around the vast silhouette of Cerberus, until it started growing larger, coming straight at the Amity's bridge. It was a fightercraft, and not a small interceptor either.

The mottled canid tried to deactivate the comm channel, but the instrument panel didn't respond, leaving Malcolm's smug face smiling back at the two hapless mutineers.  
>"Pleasure doing business with you."<p>

Twin lances of heavy blasterfire tore into the Amity's bridge with a titaninc roar of rent metal, shattered glass, and air being ripped away into the emptiness of space in one last death-cry.

And then there was nothing.

/

* * *

><p>

His comm suddenly crackled with the empty white-noise hiss of static. The others on the bridge were gone.

He was a harsh looking wolf-type canid with bleach-white fur and keen violet eyes, dressed in a rugged workman's that identified him as 'Hangar Maintenance Crew'. In one of his hands was a sturdy blaster handgun, while the other held a short range two-way comm handset up to his ear. He deactivated the hissing comm and stashed it in a pocket, then looked back up at his targets.

He'd tracked the two through the Amity to the ship's computer mainframe. One was a thin technically minded avian, while the other was the vulpine fighter pilot who'd escaped death, twice. The avian had gone in alone, leaving his fox companion outside to stand guard.

_Kill them _a voice in his head ordered.

He'd have to act fast. His cover had been blown for the fox, who would instantly identify the pale furred canid as the one who nearly killed him. With him out of the way, the slim avian would be none the wiser once he approached–

A gruff, unfamiliar voice boomed over the ship-wide PA system.  
>"Attention crew and passengers of the Amity: this is Captain Malcolm Aries of Cerberus. As I'm sure you're aware, you've had a little run-in with pirate types. The pirate forces outside have been neutralized for the moment, but the Amity has been disabled in their attack, and Captain Saru killed. You have a chance now to evacuate to safety aboard my ship, and I urge you take it. Those of you who want to leave, go to the main hangar bay now. You'll find enough shuttles there to make the transfer over to Cerberus. For those of you who'd rather take your chances aboard a crippled ship, there's really nothing I can do to force you off."<p>

_Kill them now _the voice ordered, far more urgent now _And kill all who attempt to flee_

"How many are left?" the wolf asked aloud in a whisper. It was always more comforting to hear his own voice respond, so he knew it was actually him who was speaking, and not the other in his head.

_There are enough_

"I need a number." he insisted.

The thin, black-clad avian emerged from the mainframe, and started down the corridor back to the hangar bay.

_Numbers are meaningless when so few can wreak so much havoc_

"Then forget it." he said with an air of finality, "This raid has failed."

_Coward_

"I'll take coward over idiot any day."

_There is nowhere you can run where you can escape_

"Try me."

/

* * *

><p>

James McCloud and Adrian Crane returned to the Amity's main hangar bay with most of the passengers and crew, which numbered somewhere between thirty and forty. For the most-part, they all seemed to be feeling some combination of frightened, relieved, and a little hesitation as they boarded the shuttles.

Amidst the hubbub of movement as all this happened, James caught someone taking a long look at him. It was the same younger copper furred vixen that had been ogling him earlier. She seemed just as frightened and uncertain as everyone else around her, but upon seeing James, she took a deep breath, and breathed a sigh of relief, then continued on her way with assurance–

Then he saw something else that made his fur stand up and pulse quicken. The white wolf-canid who'd nearly killed him back in hangar control was right there among the crew and passengers.

When he found one of Cerberus's crew –Chakori in this case– and informed her what was going on, she simply responded to the fox's concerns with a confident smirk, "That's good, very good in-fact."

"That's _good_?" James asked, puzzled.

"It is." the ashen leopardess nodded, "We anticipated some would try to slip onto our ship that way; we can detain him once everyone is aboard and we're underway. We'll question him then, and if there are others, we will root them out as well."

The hangar soon emptied of the Amity's crew and passengers, leaving just James, Chakori and Adrian alone on the deck.

The dark-clad avian approached the other two.  
>"Alright, that's the last of them." He turned to James, "Dengar's got your ride all set to go. We'll need you and Scott to cover the shuttles while we make the transfer, just in case there are a few more lurkers out there waiting for an easy target."<p>

James nodded quietly, and made his way to the repaired Tatpara-27. In a few more moments, the fully loaded shuttles and Jame's fightercraft lifted off the hangar floor, and proceeded out of the Amity for Cerberus. If there were any lingering pirate forces outside, they'd chosen not to attack, and let everyone board the mercenary cruiser before it finally jumped away from what was gradually becoming a graveyard...

_To Be Continued._

/

* * *

><p>

Author notes:

Okay, so it's not your usual run-'n-gun blazing action chapter, but that's in a way the point. This is an even further setup for what's still to come.  
>Those who've read the first edition might recognize a certain character I've brought back, and he's back in a big way this time around.<p>

As always, your feedback is welcomed here.


	5. A Survivor's Pain

**生存者の苦労**_**  
>A Survivor's Pain<strong>_

James was strapped in at the controls of the Caius Company sleek Tapatra-27 fightercaft, hurtling though space in pursuit of his prey: a sturdy Katinan built Sokol-7, painted completely in a matte black that would've disappeared in the background if not for the HUD's targeting brackets. Few blazes of cannon-fire saw the shadowy bogey dispatched, tumbling away as an internal explosion rocked the craft off to one side, all eerily silent in the emptiness of space. The only sounds heard by the vulpine pilot were the roaring engine and spatter of cannon-fire that came from inside his own fighter, or the voices over his headset speakers...

"Took one down." he said in a practiced rhythm, "Looking for action."

"I got one on me over here," Malloy called out over the squad's comm channel. "Persistent little bastard."

James checked his scanner readout, and found a hostile trailing behind Malloy's blip while the two scissored back and forth.

"On it!"

The fox maneuvered toward the hostile blip, lining up to cut into the scissors with a cross-weave counterattack. He identified his target by the streaks of laserfire trying to tag Malloy in the scarlet painted Tapatra-27. James opened fire on the bogey's location as the weave crossed, gunning for his target's flank. After a few hits, the black, nearly invisible fighter suddenly burst in a flash of light, illuminating itself for just a brief moment before James and Malloy streaked past side-by-side.

"That's another one I owe–"

Malloy's voice was cut short by the hiss and crackle of static, and a bright flash to Jame's side caught his attention. There were flames inside his wingman's cockpit, quickly filling the tiny space with fiery amber tongues and gray smoke. The canid's figure inside flailed and waived, desperate to stave off the inferno swallowing him whole. In a few seconds, the cockpit canopy was completely obscured with smoke, engulfing the cockpit in a gray, then inky black shroud until all that could be seen inside was Malloy's frantic fist pounding against the outside surface, slowing down, slower, and ever more slowly, and then ceased entirely as the canid's tattered hand slid down into the darkness. Then suddenly all at once, the canopy of Malloy's Tapatra-27 burst from the fighter's hull, shattering under the excess interior pressure, while a black, charred corpse tumbled out into space with the final puff of smoke–

_* Crack! *_

Something failed inside Jame's fighter, clattering and grinding in an agonized metallic screech, joined quickly by squealing alarms and wailing warning sirens. He tried to eject the cockpit free from the dying fighter, but the release mechanism didn't budge; trapping him inside. And then the flames flared to life, right at his feet, and climbed up around the fox's body, heating up until a torrent of scorching needles jabbed at every single point on his body. He didn't even register the amber veil dancing all around him, or the smoke choking his lungs, or the synthetic fabric of his flightsuit melting onto his skin. He couldn't hold on any longer, and a horrible, guttural scream escaped his boiling lungs as he finally gave up against the complete and utter agony from the inferno of pain–

And then there was nothing at all...

...

Hold that thought.

The first thing he felt was the rapid in-and-out heaving of his lungs– they still worked, good. The next thing he felt was his heart, bouncing in his chest with a rumbling rum-roll that only just began to slow down. Then was the cold, clammy sweat that he was partly doused with, making the covers cling to him– He was sitting bolt upright in a narrow bed, wearing light shorts and an undershirt, in a small, cramped room; ship's quarters. That's right, he was aboard Cerberus. He, along with the Amity's passengers and crew evacuated here about a day ago. How long had he been asleep?...

"D'ye _have_ tae be so loud?"  
>The voice came from another person in the room, hunched over a desk with his back turned to James as he worked on something. He was a dark-furred terrier named Scott. The two shared his quarters aboard Cerberus for the trip back to Lylat, each sleeping in shifts. The rest of the crew and passengers from the Amity were given sleeping cots and basic living needs aboard Cerberus, prepared by the mercenary crew who knew they'd need it for this mission. James on the other hand was offered to share Scott's quarters, and he'd accepted.<p>

The dark terrier took a look over his shoulder, and saw Jame's haunted, ghastly expression as he sat there catching his wits.  
>"Sorry– didn't mean nothin' by it if I irked ye." Scott apologized, and turned back to his work.<p>

"It's nothing..." the fox lied, forcing himself to breathe easier, trying to calm back down to reality.

A little more stable, James swung out of the narrow bed, and retrieved his flight suit. It was going to need a wash soon, the smell of stale sweat was wafting from it, but the Caius Company flight suit was the only set of clothes he had during the evacuation; some of the escapees had even less when the call came.

"Ye talk in your sleep," Scott said over his shoulder while the fox dressed himself, "about the squad you came out with."

"What's it matter to you?" James asked flatly as he fished out a pair of heavy pilot's boots, and clamped them to his feet.

"Well, how long have ye been with them?" the terrier asked quite casually.

The vulpine pilot got up and crossed over behind Scott's shoulder, curious as to what he was working on so intently. On the desk was a sword, with a long thin panel removed from the flat side of the wide blade, revealing the impact claymore's inner workings. It was little more than a pair of parallel rails running the length of the blade, and a small weight nestled in a track between them: a simple linear electric motor. With the right blade, rail and hammer material though, it'd give the sword a staggering amount of power behind its strikes, especially a thrust...

"A few weeks, just for this run mostly." James finally answered, gazing blankly at the disassembled sword below. "I've been with the company a while longer, but this was my first major–"

He choked up a moment, and changed. He saw the faces of his squadmates; Commander Agamemnon's knowing gaze, Malloy's jovial smirk, Dodge's eager ogling, Su's warm smile, and even Rudy's twitching leer. They were his squad, his wingmen, as much apart of him as the organs of a body, or the components of a machine. They were also gone, killed, dead, slain, and without even the simple warrior's dignity of a true fight. They deserved better–

"We could've _stopped_ them..." the fox growled, "We could've stopped the attack, saved the ship and everyone else–"

He choked up again, barely containing his boiling anger, and saw another face. It was a stark white face of a pale wolf, sneering back at James through a pair of vicious violet eyes. _He_ killed them, planted the bombs that took the lives of the squad, poisoning the guardians with nothing more than small packets of high explosives–

James said nothing, but the steely glare in his eyes told all, and the singular purpose in his movements belied the calculated fury that now drove him. He scoped up the handgun on the table, checked that it was usable, and slipped it into his belt before punching the door controls. The cabin door split apart, and allowed McCloud to step through unhindered.

"Wait lad!" Scott called out as the fox left, "Where d'ye think you're goin'?"

But he was already gone...

/

* * *

><p>

Cerberus was a strange vessel, stranger than most he'd been aboard...

The crew numbered only five, which was sub-skeletal for a frigate sized vessel like Cerberus. Only a heavily automated vessel could function this way. Because of this, the extra space aboard easily accommodated the Amity's refugees, most of whom were spread about the ship's empty cargo bay. They stood or sat quietly in small groups, the same groups that stuck together when aboard the Amity. Mostly they were shocked, still recovering from the brutal attack less than twenty-four hours behind them. Some were just relieved to be alive, some were still frightened for more to possibly come, and others bore the haunted, thousand-yard stare that comes from trauma the likes of which nobody should ever be forced to endure. James picked his way through them all as he lurked through the bay, searching for one in particular–

He stopped.

At one side of the cluttered cargo bay was a small group James recognized as the Lylat Tribune news crew. She was with them, the younger copper furred vixen who'd supposedly been ogling at him before. She siting mostly alone there, huddled down with her arms wrapped around her knees while she stared blankly off in the distance, trying to muffle the shock still ringing in her system it seemed. for a moment, James considered calling the whole thing off. The entire incident was still too fresh, and the blaster felt so awkward jammed inside his pants–

There he was.

Not to much further down was that same harsh white wolf, leaning up against the wall by himself with arms folded, glaring around the room with a look of contempt. He killed them –the squad– putting everyone in this cargo bay and more at mortal risk from his actions, and he was allowed to roam free at his leisure. On top of everything this bastard was responsible for, seeing him there like this was too much.

The wolf hadn't seen James, so the fox went up to the wall and came toward him along the edge of the cargo bay, at the wolf's left. When he closed in, the fox flipped the handgun out of his belt and armed it, holding it low close to his hip so it stayed hidden. Another instant later, he jammed the weapon into the wolf's lower back.

The other flinched at the sudden pressure, and saw James as he glanced back over his shoulder, but didn't do or say anything.

"Just, walk." the vulpine pilot growled quietly, patting the wolf on his shoulder.

The other turned silently forward, and allowed McCloud to lead him out of Cerberus's cargo bay. A few heads turned on the way out, but not enough for anyone to speak up, or in any way try to stop it. Few others, if any, realized that James had the white wolf at gunpont.

In a few moments, the two had gone to a secluded, narrow corridor in Cerberus's underbelly; a passage used mainly for system access, mainly to the artificial gravity generators for the rear portion of the vessel. The constant, low rumbling electric hum of the graviton generators, permeated everything at the bottom here, where the gravity tugged harder, closest to the source, harder than anywhere else on the ship, making each step feel heavy and every movement sluggish. It even seemed to weigh down Jame's voice when he finally spoke.

"We trusted you." the fox's voice ground, like verbal gravel, "We allowed you into our lives and livelihood, and then you stabbed each and every one of us in the back."

He waited for the wolf's response, but there wasn't much. Possibly he exhaled what might've been a sigh, and there was a movement that could've been a rolling of the eyes. Then he finally spoke; an arrogant voice that could care less about what was going on, about his predicament.

"Blow me–"

"–away? Sure..."  
>James jammed his handgun against the lupine saboteur's head, keeping him an arm's length away<br>"Murdering, cowardly filth like you aren't ever missed, so you'd better come up with a _really_ good reason for me not to kill you right here, right now–"

"How's _this!_" the wolf whirled around, twisting away from the blaster's line-of-fire and knocking Jame's weapon hand to the side at the same time. He continued into a spinning left hook, but the fox ducked below the careening fist, lunging forward under his arms.

The pale wolf acted fast, slipping his right arm down between Jame's neck and shoulder while grabbing hold of the fox's weapon arm with his other hand, and then used his elbow to bring pressure down on the vulpine pilot's neck. This should end the fight–

James reacted by twisting his entire body with the pressure, cranking his weapon arm out of the lock to wrap around the wolf's neck into a laying clinch against the floor. The pale lupine tried to reach behind and grab at Jame's blaster again, but the fox jammed a knee into his sternum, knocking him off his feet and off-balance.

An opening presented itself, and the wolf shot his fingertips forward in a spear-hand strike to Jame's throat. The blow connected, hard, and the fox gasped and wheezed through his badly bruised, while hils lupine opponent swung down to initiate an arm bar on Jame's weapon arm. He got one leg over the fox's neck and chest, but James rolled backward out of it and onto his feet before the wolf could get his other leg to lock him in. However, McCloud's desperate maneuver sacrificed control of his blaster, and the wolf kicked up onto his feet with Jame's handgun in-hand.

He brought the weapon up to bear, and–

_* Blam! *_

The wolf staggered, and fell face-down to the metal floor, firing off a blaster shot harmlessly into nothing as he collapsed to the ground in a heap.

A few meters down the corridor, behind the incapacitated wolf, was Scott Aberdeen, holding his heavy blaster pistol pointed where the lupine attacker stood just a moment ago. The dark terrier stepped forward, eyes smoldering with a hot glare of irritation, which he brought to full-bear on James as he trudged closer.

"Scott..." the fox scratched out, struggling through his swollen throat, "I–"

_* Blam! *_

And there was a bright flash, obliterating everything in a wash of pale gray, an infinite misty fog, and a high-pitched ping that rang out, hanging on until there was nothing but cold, dead silence.

Just the silence...

"McCloud!" a harsh, authoritative voice barked from the pale silence, ringing and lingering in the mists.

A figure strode out of the gray nothing toward James, his footfalls pounding like a steady drumbeat. The figure soon came into clear view: Captain Sobak Soyuz, dressed in a Cornerian combat uniform with stiff-brimmed hat secured to his head. As he came closer, the firm husky drilled into James with his electric blue eyes, controlling every movement and sound of his voice.

"Why have you failed here, McCloud?" Soyuz demanded, "Answer me."

"I..." James tried to look back at the uniformed, black-and-white husky, but couldn't, "I don't know."

"No." Soyuz retorted, his voice sharp and jagged like the blade of a saw,"You know _precisely_ why you failed, but you are too ashamed and too proud to admit this legitimate defeat..."  
>Soyuz slowly paced back and forth in front of the fox, always keeping him locked tight under his unrelenting gaze.<p>

"According to the Art of War, there are five dangerous faults, each and every one of which you have succumbed to here," he counted off on the fingers of one hand, "One: over-solicitude for your comrades, which exposes one to worry and trouble. Two: a delicacy of honor which is sensitive to shame. Three: a hasty temper, which can be provoked by insult. Four: recklessness, which leads to destruction. Five: cowardice, which leads to–"

"I am no coward!" James shot back.

"Perhaps not, but you have proven my point nonetheless." Captain Soyuz sneered down with contempt, "Your reckless impulsiveness is driven by a hair-trigger temper, which is in-turn fueled by the broken pieces of shattered honor: self-pitying shame you bear for those lost. You wish you could have done something to stop it, to alter events so the outcome would not have been what it is."

"He _killed_ them." James asked the husky, rising up to the officer enraged, "He's a goddamn backstabbing saboteur who didn't even have the guts to stand and fight! If it wasn't for him, none of this would've ever happened!"

"But he stood and fought against _you,_ then defeated you when you had every tangible advantage pressed against him. He saw your weak points, your faults, your enraged blundering clumsiness, and exploited it against you. He understood the Art of War, this is why he utilized sabotage, subterfuge, and guile."

"I wasn't just going to stand by while that... _murderer_ roamed free!" the fox fumed, "He deserves to be cut down, and buried in a shallow, unmarked grave!"

"Then dig another grave: your own..."  
>Captan Sobak Soyuz began circling around James, always close, bearing down on the fox with every ounce of unbridled unapologetic disdain in his stores.<br>"The dead are _dead–_ gone– there is nothing you can do for them now. To act with stupidity does not honor them, it is disgraceful; you are a _disgrace, _ you would rather bitch and moan instead of acting with the keen discipline required of you, then you ought to retire from the life of soldiery, because your kind have no place in it."

With one last disgusted huff, the husky canid turned his back to James, and marched off back into the infinite misty grayness, leaving the fox to himself.

And the colorless, stifling silence returned once more...

...

Some immeasurable length of time later, the silence gave way to a low grumbling hum, and the infinite gray fog began to wash away. His vision showed simple metal paneling, a ceiling he realized; he was looking straight up. James was on his back, on a hard and uncomfortable excuse of a mattress, with his head on top of a deflated pillow.

The fox hoisted himself up, head buzzing and ringing with every motion he made. He recognized this pain; it was the kind caused by blaster shot loaded with an EM charge, fired at the head, and this one felt especially brutal. Through this disorientation though, James found himself in a tiny room –smaller even than where he slept before– with only three walls, and the fourth wall replaced by a set of steel bars and metal mesh overlay. A prison cell?

"Rise and shine, McCloud." a gruff voice greeted in a singsong tone. He'd heard it before somewhere...

James found am older ram standing outside, leaning casually against the bars and mesh of the opposite cell. He remembered now; this was Malcolm Aries, the one he heard aboard the Aminty, Cpatain of this ship.

"What the hell am I doing here?" the fox asked, his voice slurred either from tiredness, or the effects of the EM shot, but likely both

"You attacked someone aboard this ship, and there are witnesses to support it."

"but he..." James started to defend himself, then came more to his senses, remembering how stupidly he acted, "I screwed up there, didn't I?"

"You sure did, but I can't say I blame you." the ram answered with a knowing nod. "It's rough what happened back there, I'd plumb near go insane if it was me. Normally I'd cut you some major slack for it, but there are an extra dozen or so frightened, scared, easily spooked refugees aboard, and we're trying to keep calm. I need to make sure they're reassured and everything that it's gonna be okay."

"So when do I get out?" the fox asked offhand,

"Hard to say." Malcolm began as he rubbed one of his thick horns, thinking. "Thing is, I can't let you out of here until I decide you're no longer a threat, either to the people aboard this ship and their well-being, or to yourself. Understand?"

"Yeah." James replied, eyes downcast in shame as he sat on the bed's edge.

Malcolm's words made sense. An entire cargo bay full of those refugees just saw James haul off that white wolf, and he he didn't have any authority to do so aboard Cerberus. From their prospective, there was no telling what he was doing. He hated himself for it, and in all honesty, probably wouldn't have shown his to them, even if he was allowed to.

"Alright then." The older ram said quietly, "I'm sorry it has to be this way, I really am..."

Malcolm Aries stepped away, and exited the cramped cell block, revealing the white wolf laying sprawled out in the opposite cell, still unconscious. A flash of rage washed over James when he saw the other, reminding the fox of everything that went wrong over the last few days, including his own foolhardy acts. He wanted nothing more than to hurt that bastard, to make him suffer for the lives he'd taken or ruined. However, James also knew he couldn't let that urge take over; the only reason he was still alive was because Scott was smart enough to realize what was happening, and intervened in the nick of time.

When the wolf awoke a few minutes later, nothing all that exciting happened.

The pale lupine saboteur paid James little attention, and laid back in the cot of his cell, quietly gazing up at the ceiling, displaying little if any discernible emotions. James made no attempt to speak or communicate in any way, as if pretending he wasn't there would somehow cool off his incessant hate, prevent it from boiling over. It was almost as if the two of them had agreed to some unwritten pact to not acknowledge each other's existence, and allow them to simply stew and brood in silence, with only the ever-present mechanical hum and grumble of the ship's systems to keep them company.

The time in Cerberus's tiny brig became governed by a steady routine. Scott and Chakori would come in early and take the white wolf away, for questioning James figured. A few minutes afterward Pigma would come in with a meal, and would always try to strike up some conversation with the silent fox, while most of the time he'd simply tune out the young swine's babble. He meant well, but James just didn't want to talk to anyone, and simply wanted time alone, which he got for several hours at a time each day, until the wolf would be led back into his cell.

Sometime after that is when James ended up sleeping, and it would start again the next day. It all became very dull, very fast, and threatened to remain so indefinitely. Then something different happened.

It was one of the quiet stretches of time after the meal, after Pigma had scurried off and left James to be alone for several hours. The door to the outside corridor slid open, and Chakori's exotically accented voice came wafting into the small space, but it was far more lighthearted than he'd normally heard from her.

"... and this is the brig, where we keep people who–" The leopardess said as she walked in, and there was another set of footsteps following close behind.

It was her again, that same copper furred vixen who'd been ogling James for goodness only knows how long at this point. She came in with Chakori, but ground to a halt the instant she and James saw each other, and realized who the other was. McCloud felt his face suddenly flush red hot, while the rest of his body froze solid, and it seemed like her reaction was similar.

After an unbearably long few seconds, the vixen slunk backward out of Cerberus's brig, leaving James and Chakori alone.

"What the hell were you _thinking?_" the flustered fox burst out, "That's the girl who was stalking me back aboard the Amity!"

"Ah, so you _do _know of her." she confirmed, enjoying every moment of Jame's utter embarrassment.

"Did she–"

"No, I arranged it myself." the leopardess interrupted, "She was just as surprised as you, more so I think."

"How did you–"

"I was raised in a very large, tight-knit family, with many brothers and sisters." Chakori explained, "I _know_ the face of a young woman secretly thinking about a young man, it was on her plain as day when she looked at you with those lovely green eyes of hers."

"You can't just _arrange_ these things!"

"Whole marriages are arranged where I come from, this is nothing." she dismissed with a wave of her hand.

"This isn't a _game..._" James was coming down off his state of shock, and assumed a more frustrated stance with Chakori, "You can't just play matchmaker like this."

"Oh, but you seem so _bored_ in here, and so did she out there all alone." the leopardess implored in a teasing, over-dramatic way, "A game is _precisely_ what you, she and everyone needs at times like this to ease weary minds. And be honest: what else would you have done with your great surplus of time?"

"I'm in your goddamn _brig._" he grumbled, not really answering the question.

"It makes you very convenient to keep track of."

"What the hell kind of first-impression is this to give?" James snapped back, throwing his arms up as his irritation burst, "This isn't how I'd want to meet her!"

Chakori just stood there on the other side of the cell door, arms crossed and a knowing, satisfied smirk gracing her normally cold features.  
>"So, you think about her as well then?"<p>

"I... um... " he trailed off, and that sudden hotness flooded his face again.

The leopardess chuckled quietly at this, and decided to finally ease the fox's awkwardness.  
>"Her name is Vicenzia Reinard, but she prefers to be referred to simply as 'Vixy'. If after that she still thinks well of you, then she passes the test."<p>

"The test?"

"That is: she cares more about you as _you_ than about your sense of vanity, which means she's a good woman, and worth pursuing..."  
>She waited, and when she saw that James understood, Chakori bowed her head forward and uttered a greeting.<br>"Namaste."

Though he didn't understand it, she spoke with an earnest tone of respect, and the fox imitated the head-bow gesture in response. The leopardess smiled back, then turned away and began to leave Just as she came to the doorway though, Jame's voice cut through and held her back.

"Hey, thanks." the fox said, far more calm than he'd been for a very long time, and glad for it. If nothing else, Chakori's antics could keep his mind off everything that'd gone wrong; keep him looking forward and up, instead of back and down.

"Of course." she nodded back solemnly, very aware of Jame's gratitude, and more aware of how badly he needed something– anything to distract him from himself. The girl just happened to be a convenient and happy accident.

The leopardess then left James alone in Cerberus's brig. He had a lot to think about now, and didn't need her in the way.

/

* * *

><p>

Author notes:

I was going to make this just the first part of a much larger chapter, but this came so nicely to a sort-of conclusion right here, that to drag it on longer would've diminished it greatly and not been as effective, at least that's my thought. And yes, I'm finally starting to reintroduce romance into the story. Hopefully I can get it to work well this time around.

As always, your feedback is most welcome.


	6. No Miracles

**奇跡しない ****  
><em>No Miracles<em>**

If Cerberus's capabilities were similar to the Amity, they should be reaching Lylat within a few days by now...

The routine repeated itself normally for another day cycle much as it had since it started. When the pale wolf cam back from his latest exit, he looked different. He still wore his ubiquitous defiant scowl at all times, but it'd become more tired, broken down, his white fur rough and matted, his movements sluggish, and he fell asleep quickly. Still he spurned any contact, keeping stubbornly silent through it all, and continued when he was woken up and taken away once more.

This time however, Pigma didn't come to give James the meal like he normally did. When the white wolf was led out of the brig, Malcolm Aries returned in the swine's place, complete with a food-laden tray, and a grim, concerned look drawing down on the older ram's features.

Malcolm opened up the cell door and stepped slowly inside, the smell of the cheap prepared food wafting through the brig. It looked like some steak dish, with sliced potatoes, mixed vegetables. Not exactly gourmet by any standard, but the fox had grown accustomed to cheap food, and this was probably the best anyone aboard Cerberus would be getting anyway.

"So," James greeted, "am I getting out yet or what?"

"I don't think so." the ram answered as he handed him the steaming tray, "Not yet anyway."

The fox accepted the food tray with a frustrated sigh, and unwrapped the plastic spork provided before sitting down on the cell's bed, tray in lap.  
>"Are you going to tell me why, at least?"<p>

"There's another reason we've been keeping you in here." Malcolm answered dryly.

"It's him, isn't it?" the fox said, gesturing at the empty cell across from him with the spork.

"Yeah..."

The ram leaned against the cell's open doorway, arms crossed, and not making eye-contact with McCloud. The fox just listened while he ate the bland but necessary meal.

"He's completely stonewalling all of our interrogation efforts. We've had him doped him up with all sorts of drugs, deprived him of sleep– anything to try to loosen him up. So far we don't even have a name or anything to show for it. He's got some of the most brutal resistance skills I've ever come across. "

"What're you doing to him? Torture?" James asked. Some part of him hoped he was actually being tortured, or at least humiliated.

"We may be mercs, but there are some lines we won't cross, and that's one of them." Malcolm answered, shaking his head, "As far as I'm concerned, torture's never all that reliable in the first place, and is only worth it for the sick sadistic creeps. Besides, we've still got a few tricks up our sleeves."

"Such as?"

"You."

"I think I see where this is going."

The graying ram nodded as he continued.  
>"Captives are usually <em>way<em> more open with their fellow inmates than their captors. You're not a threat to him in here, so he may talk to you. We've been keeping you here in case he said something to you, which he hasn't yet, but you've been keeping awfully quiet too."

"What exactly do you expect _me_ to do about it?" James asked, growing slightly irritated, "Question him?"

"Not 'question' him so to speak," Malcom gave a small shrug, "just talk to him, get him to say something back to you, _anything_. If you can get the words flowing, something might slip out."

"If he's already stonewalling everything you've got, what makes you think I'll do any better?" the fox asked.

"I never figured it to be a perfect plan, but this is what the circumstances served us up with, and we may as well give it a shot."

James just sat there on the bunk for a few moments, staring blank-faced at the still untouched food on the tray, tapping the plastic spork against the side of it as he thought.

"Okay, fine." James replied with a reluctant sigh, "I'll talk to him, but on two conditions."

"Sure."

He looked up at Malcolm with an alert, steely cunning in his eye that knew better.  
>"I want in on whatever it is you're doing, what you <em>really<em> came all the way out here chasing the Amity for. It doesn't take a genius to see that there are some major pieces missing from the puzzle; there's got to be a bigger reason than simple heroic valor that you crashed a Harrow pirate raid. So if I'm going to be your ace in the hole, then I deserve to know what exactly I'm being roped into..."  
>And with that, the fox finally dug into his food and began eating, quietly waiting for Malcolm's response.<p>

"Fair enough." the ram gave a quick nod before beginning, "The outlaw faction Harrow has been stepping up pirate raids, specifically: they've only been targeting vessels that make the Cerinia/Sauria run, like the Amity and Sojourn. Someone in Lylat Central Intelligence wants to know why this is happening, so they've hired us as a part of their investigation."

"You mean Rick and Rachelle Cooney." James mentioned between mouthfuls of the cheap food.

"Yes, but the Cooneys are more what you'd call 'middle-men' of Intelligence, folk who go into the field and get things done on behalf of their higher-up, such as hire people like us in certain cases. We've worked with the Cooneys on a number of occasions, so it was only natural they'd call on us when they got the tip that the Amity was going to be attacked."

"So what was your part in the Amity raid?"

"To gather as much information as possible." Malcolm said in an obvious matter-of-fact tone, then divulged further, "It was a a multi-pronged operation: we sent Adrian, Pigma and Chakori aboard the Amity for primarily two reasons: first, plant the quantum smart-bug; second, hack into the Amity's mainframe and download the complete ship's manifest. We weren't going to leave without the passengers and crew though, and it even landed us that stubborn stone of a prisoner; he's part of Harrow if you didn't guess that already–"

"Quantum smart-bug?" James interrupted, confused and curious.

"Adrian hooked it up to the Amity's mainframe while he was aboard." the ram mused, "It's some nifty, _insanely_ expensive little chunk of hardware that can transmit great gobs of data from anywhere to anywhere else instantly, regardless of distance or any interference, and is impossible to trace or intercept. If you want details, ask Pigma: the kid'll geek out all over the place and talk your ears off about it, if you can stomach it."

"So why tag the ship with a super-bug and leave it?" James asked, "Why not take it back?"

"The guys in LCI want to see what happens to the Amity." Malcolm answered, "They want to know what Harrow does to the ships they capture, and how they'll react if we just leave the ship and all its contents there for them to take. At least, that's what Rick told me when I asked him the same thing, and that's everything I know about this op..."  
>The ram exhaled a long, relieved sigh before saying anything more.<br>"So, what's this other condition of yours?"

"Just tell Chakori that..." James paused a moment, trying to find the best way to word it, "that I'd like to have a visitor. She'll know what I mean."  
>He handed Malcolm the empty tray, not making any eye-contact.<p>

"Okay then..." the ram took it, not pressing to question McCloud's odd request. "We'll have him back in here in about an hour, and you can talk to him then. Thanks again for understanding and putting up with all this. We'll make it up to you when it's over, I swear it."

Malcolm Aries turned and left, closing the door on his way out, and leaving James alone. All the while the fox simply sat hunched on the bunk, staring at a spot somewhere on the floor, wandering through a great many thoughts about a great many things...

"Yeah..." he uttered, not really sure or even concerned whether or not the ram heard it.

/

* * *

><p>

The shuttle door opened, and Vicenzia Reinard stepped inside from Cerberus's hangar bay. It was a mid-sized shuttle, built to ferry about six passengers from a host ship with extra cargo capacity, but it could make interplanetary runs if properly stocked. The Lylat Tribune shuttle looked just the same as she'd left it several times before: mostly clean, but with a few odds and ends scattered here and there. Of particular interest was a tripod mounted video camera, aimed at one of the shuttle's built-in swivel chairs. The camera stood dormant for now, but that was about to change.

The copper furred vixen approached the camera and powered it up, reigniting a number of indicator lights over the device. Shortly after, she removed a memory chip from one of her pockets, slid it into the corresponding slot in the camera. The camera found the chip's memory storage, and Vixy effortlessly navigated its control scheme in preparation for recording...

The camera was reliable, trustworthy friend who'd always listen, always remembered what it was told without distortion, and never said anything she didn't want to hear. She needed this silent, ever receptive friend now more than ever: the perfect vehicle though which to unload all these heavy burdens on her mind...

Having completed her prep work, the copper vixen, stepped in front of the camera and sat down in the swivel chair, which quietly squeaked with the torque applied to it. Vixy took a moment, and a deep breath to go with it before looking up though the steady eye of her mechanical friend's lens, and the blinking red light next to it that told her it was listening.

"Day five after the attack on the Amity." She began, her voice steady, kept under control by habit and practice, "Everyone aboard is so quiet, or restless. The raid hit some of us harder than others, and the... petrified, ghostly shock from it still lingers around a few of them aboard. The Amity's engineer –Hargreave I think is his name– seems to have the worst of it. He constantly jabbers on and on without stop. Sometimes it's decipherable, sometimes its a whole lot of technical jargon, and other times it's just incoherent mumbling..."

"Some of us are starting to come around though, and we try to lift others' spirits. The crew of Cerberus seem too busy to be bothered, distracted by something else, but I can only imagine what by. Even so, one of this ship's sparse crew members has been trying to reach out. Her name is Chakori Uncia, from Fortuna, and she's made something of a friend of me during the past few days; even gave me a tour of the ship..."

She trailed off from there, coming to an abrupt stop as if the brakes were suddenly jammed to her train of thought. Yet the camera's ever-attentive eye and ear stood there, capturing every awkward nuance and moment moment as it waited for what she'd say or do next. Just as her emerald eyes drifted away from the camera, she snapped them back with a quick inward breath and quick words afterward, regaining control, if only for a moment.

"That's all I have for now. This is Vixy Reinard, signing off."

And with that, she reached up and stopped the recording, closing the camera's indifferent apathetic eye that would never truly understand. Another few moments had the memory chip ejected from the camera, and then. She spent a few moments gazing down at the little square resting in the palm of her hand, until she finally let a breath go she hadn't realized was being held–

"Aren't you leaving something out?"

"Good God!" Vixy spluttered out, nearly jumping out of her skin at the sudden voice behind her. When she whipped around, almost tripping over the chair in the process, she found the feline form of Chakori sitting there quite casually, "What are you doing here? How did you get in?"

"I have my ways." the ashen leopardess answered.

"You can't just sneak up on people like that!" the vixen protested.

"Clearly I can."

Vixy caught hold of herself, working down as easily as she could from her sudden hysteria. She knew no amount of argument was going to change Chakori's mind on this, so the vixen stopped herself from careening toward that dead-end, and instead steered down the next path:

"What do you want?" She asked quietly.

"I want to talk, that's all."

"And you couldn't have waited _five_ minutes?"

"I could have, but I also can't help but feel you've neglected to mention something in your little..." Chakori gestured vaguely at the camera, digging up the right words to describe it, "Video confessional; some_one, _actually."

"I don't have any idea what you're talking about." Vixy stated in a cold, blatant lie.

"You're not fooling anyone." The leopardess retorted with a shake of her head, "Not me, and not yourself in the slightest: you're attracted to him."

"Look, it was nice of you to give me a tour of the ship and all, but I didn't know there was going to be someone in your brig. I was a little shocked that's all..."  
>She abandoned the flimsy ruse, not really believing it herself, and tried something else.<br>"What the heck did he _do_ to get himself thrown in there anyway? He's one of the _escort pilots_ for Sol's sake!"

"He knows you've been spying on him." Chakori mentioned, not fazed in the slightest.

"What?" Vixy felt her face flash hot, while her hands became clammy and restless, "That was nothing– I mean– what the hell else was I supposed to do on a long, boring-ass trip? It's not like there was much else on that tub worth admiring. I'm allowed to have my dumb little daydreams, but that doesn't mean I _have_ to act on them, especially now that I know he's dangerous–"

"And you think _that's _why we locked him away in our brig? Understandable, I suppose..."  
>The ashen leopardess waited a moment, preparing herself and finding the right words.<br>"He is... troubled, gravely. He lost many close comrades during the raid: every single one of his squadmates killed, all except for him, and he took the loss very hard. He was pushed to the brink of insanity by the guilt he felt, and it drove him to do something foolish, nearly killing him because of it. We locked him away more as a precaution, to protect him from his own actions until he cools down."

"That's... terrible, but that's _his_ problem." Vixy responded, somewhat confused, "So why are you telling _me_ about it?"

"He's requested to have you come visit him; he's very interested in meeting you."

"I..." she was taken aback, and didn't really know what to say, and so stalled for time, "I have better things to do."

"Like talking to your little friend here?" Chakori mused as she pointed out the camera once again, bordering on sarcastic.

"You're _really_ not going to let this go, are you?"

"Perhaps I haven't made the situation entirely clear..."  
>Chakori's tone became far more serious, chilling her words to a sharp, clear crystalline point.<br>"He _needs_ all the support he can get right now, something to take his grief-ridden mind away from these tragedies. He _needs_ someone to talk to, to form a kind, caring, friendly bond he can grab hold of and pull himself up by so he doesn't drown in his own sorrows. You can provide this."

"I'm no shrink, or therapist." Vixy mentioned, trying not to look at the leopardess.

"True, but there isn't a clinical psychologist anywhere who could have prescribed a better treatment" Chakori's words thawed out, and began to warm up again.

"Why does it have to be _me?_"

"To be perfectly blunt, it has to be you because you set yourself up for it." the leopardess explained, "No one else aboard is readily able to do for him what you can do right here, right now."

"I'm... I'm just not sure."

"Please, do yourself a service and let yourself have this experience, for your own sake as much as his." the ashen leopardess implored, a quiet sense of urgency leaking through her cold, hard visage, "Even if it goes badly, then you can at least move on without the question of 'what if' constantly nagging at you from behind. Because if you _don't_ go to him, you will spend a very, very long time regretting that decision, agonizing over it as you wonder what might've happened if only you'd taken the chance..."

She stepped away and turned to exit the shuttle. The conversation had loosened something within Chakori, and now she was the one struggling to maintain control. The leopardess took a few moments to gather herself, and looked over her shoulder to give Vixy one last piece of information.

"His... his name is–"

"McCloud, James McCloud." the vixen supplied, "I know."

Chakori just nodded slowly, and an understanding glimmer crossed her normally icy gaze.  
>"Come by the brig tomorrow at fourteen-hundred–" she stopped herself, and translated the military jargon into something more manageable, "Two in the afternoon."<p>

Just as Chakori was about to exit the shuttle for good, something held her back: a question.

"That regret..." Vixy began, getting her attention, "Do you know it from personal experience?"

With her back turned to the vixen, Chakori let her head hang a moment as she batted this sudden resurrection of old, long-buried emotions. When she felt she'd held them off well enough, she glanced over her shoulder at Vixy one last time; the ice in her eyes had all but melted away...

"... I do."

And without another word or moment more, she left.

/

* * *

><p>

When James opened his eyes, he saw the swirling gray mists he'd grown accustomed to over the past few days. This is how his dreams seemed to go ever since he was locked into Cerberus's brig.

"You are _pathetic._" a familiar, unforgiving voice scolded through the mists.

"We've been over this already, _sir_." the fox retorted, rolling his eyes.

"I know what you're trying to do –your schemes, your plans– and it is all in vain..."  
>The figure of Captain Sobak Soyuz strode through the mists again, his sharp, electric blue eyes drilling into McCloud once again.<br>"Despite your best collective efforts, he will not tell you a single _thing. _He is nothing but dead weight to you."

"And what makes you so sure?" James asked without much care.

"It's a shame you didn't kill him when you had the chance. It would've saved so much trouble, for everyone..."  
>The Husky officer released a disapproving sigh, and gazed off into the surrounding nothingness.<br>"But no: he lives, and lingers on for much longer than he and his utter uselessness deserve. _Pitiful._"

There was something different about Captain Soyuz this time. He wasn't putting constant, unrelenting pressure on James like he normally did in these dreams. Instead, he seemed to be referencing other things entirely, things he shouldn't have any knowledge of in the first place.

"Wait, what are you talking about?"

"You haven't the faintest idea what you're up against, do you?" he asked James with a confident sneer, "The forces you and your little band of saviors are to contend with?"

"This can't be real... It's all in my head."  
>The fox tried closing his eyes, anything to kill the images, but it seemed his eyes were already shut, and the image of Sobak Soyuz wouldn't go away.<p>

"Of _course_ it's all in your head," the officer taunted, "but why should that simple fact make this experience any less real?"

"Who _are_ you?"

The husky officer turned back to James, but something seemed off. It was something about his eyes; they were already a bright, piercing shade of blue, but the seemed almost to shine, glowing with a light of their own from within...

"I broke your silent cell-mate long ago, I broke your squad leader Agamemnon before his end, and I will break _you_ just the same."

"That doesn't answer my question." the fox stated, glaring back just as firmly, holding his ground.

"Who _am_ I?" Captain Soyuz mocked, almost laughing as he said it, "That is a complex question, the answer to which you would fail utterly to understand."

"Try me." James challenged.

"Hmm, very well..." The gray mists of the surrounding backdrop darkened, reminiscent of stormclouds, there even seemed to be a low rumble that rose from the nothing. Then the image of Soyuz began to blur, every movement of his followed by ghostly streaks of its afterimage, like he was being seen through a hazy, drunken stupor. His eyes however remained: two points of harsh, pale blue light that remained unchanged in the gathering darkness. Then it was no longer an image of Sobak Soyuz at all, but someone else entirely; still canid, but with sharper, more pointed features instead of the husky's boxy squared ones, but it was too blurred to make out any further details.

_I am Harrow– _

"Hey, wake up lad..."

The smoky black clouds cleared away, fading into the real and very familiar blank ceiling of his cell in Cerberus's brig, staring up from that same bunk. Those eyes however seemed to linger on for a while, haunting and glaring at him from within the walls even now...

"Ye had another bad dream, didn't ye?" a familiar voice said, close by.

Sstanding over the fox was Scott Aberdeen, his dark silhouette off to one side

"It happens a lot lately." James replied, still coming awake as he hoisted himself up.

The memories returned as the dream was swept away by reality. He remembered what he was in here for, what he was supposed to be doing, and recalled that yesterday wasn't nearly as productive as it should've been. All of McCloud's efforts to talk to the white wolf were met with the usual stubborn silence, and went on for a few hours until the lupine prisoner finally grunted "Piss off" at James, and then forced himself into sleep. Those two words was all the fox was able to glean from the other prisoner for now...

Scott was there in the cell with him, right where he thought he'd be, with the open door behind him. James also noticed the cell across from him was empty again, which meant Cerberus's crew was still trying something on their end, but exactly what it was they never told. There was something else though: a couple of folding chairs and a collapsible table were set up outside the cell. The fox soon became aware of a certain food aroma. Sure enough, on closer inspection the table did in fact have a pair of those all too familiar packaged-prepared meal trays resting on it, waiting.

"Ye got yourself a visitor," Scott informed as he stepped outside the cell, past the makeshift dinner table, "a nervous, bonny las by the look of her."

"And all this?..." James said, gesturing at the place-setting as he followed the terrier outside.

"Chax's idea." Scott answered with a small chuckle, "Figured it's the least we could do tae make this a bit less awkward for ye."

"Thanks." the fox replied, sounding perhaps a little more dry and cold-hearted than he meant, and added, "I appreciate it."

"Hm." Scott acknowledged with a quick nod. He then excused himself and headed toward the brig's exit, saying over his shoulder, "I'll just send her in then." and that was it.

James McCloud spent a few moments standing blank-faced in Cerberus's brig while it all started sinking in. This was a date he suddenly realized, a _first_ date no less, and here he was in a beat-up Caius Company fighter pilot's flight-suit, infused with several days' worth of stale sweat. At least he'd been able to get some kind of shower in the cell's minimal facilities, hidden by a simple curtain in the corner.

He felt his heart rate start creeping up, and his breaths were being drawn deeper into his lungs. He was feeling nervous and a little awkward, as many guys often do on their first date, and strangest part is that it felt _good_. It felt good, at least for a while, to not be consumed by the horrible events of the past, and to be looking forward to something, even if unsure and a little off-balance about it. The fox sucked down a deep breath of air that, trough some sort of placebo affect he could care less about, felt cool and refreshing in his chest, and he relished in the comfortable awkwardness of the moment...

The door to outer corridor opened again, and a young copper furred vixen stepped through. She looked a little uneasy, and rightly so, glancing around Cerberus's bland and boring brig until her emerald eyes landed squarely on James. She allowed a weak smile to have its way with her face and gave McCloud a small wave, making her look just a little goofy in her insecurity.

"Hey." Vixy managed through the awkwardness.

"Hey." James replied in-kind.

For a moment, they just stood there, looking each other over with their unsure stares. Both he and she looked as if they'd seen better days, much like everyone else aboard Cerberus for that matter. The moment soon passed, when James stepped forward toward Vixy, scrambling to put up the facade of the 'hospitable host', such as he could in the brig.

"Why don't you come on in and take a seat?" the fox invited, gesturing at the simple table-and-chairs setup in front of them, "We've uh, got something here for lunch it looks like."

"Sure, alright..."

"Thanks for coming down here." James said as the two took their respective places at the table opposite the other, "I know this weird and everything, and I really appreciate your being open about it."

"You don't have to thank me." Vixy dismissed with a small shake of her head, "Chakori explained your situation; If anyone needs thanks, its her."

"No kidding." the fox agreed, "Can you believe she went ahead and orchestrated this whole thing?"

"I caught on to her little matchmaker scheme pretty much when she lured me in here the first time..."  
>She picked up the spork provided and started on the food tray in front of her, but quickly trailed off in a quiet giggle she couldn't hide.<p>

"What's so funny?" James asked.

"Nothing." Vixy began, "Just– the look on your face when you saw me, it was like I'd caught you naked or something."

"Excuse me– naked?"

"Uh..." the vixen squinched and blushed, having realized just what she let slip out.

James noticed this, and did his best to put her out of her awkwardness.  
>"Snarks aside, you gotta give Chakori props for picking up on us like she did..." He held up his forefinger and thumb, mere millimeters apart. "I was <em>this<em> close to asking you out the normal way back on the Amity? _This,_ close right before the attack happened."

"That so?" Vixy asked, somewhat relieved to be out of the hole she dug.

"Yeah, right after my last drilling session with the squad in the Amity's mess, I was so going to ask if you'd like to hang out, or something..."  
>"Just out of curiosity: would you have said 'yes', you know, without all these crazy things happening?"<p>

"I don't know, probably..." After a moment or two of consideration, Vixy let out something between a sigh and a chuckle, and changed her answer. "Oh who am I kidding? Of course I would've said 'yes'. There wasn't much else to do back on the Amity, I was bored out of my mind, and I guess I was sort of... um... stalking you... just a little."

"You're not one of those psycho obsessive girls, are you?" James quipped.

"Oh for love of– I was freaking _bored,_ okay? Haven't I made this point clear enough already?" she insisted, rolling her eyes, "I'm not one to just go and _spy_ on random guys. I usually do _other_ _things_ given the opportunity."

"Sorry, bad joke." the fox apologized, and moved on, "I can't say I blame you though. These long-haul interstellar runs are about as dull as they come. Heck, _I_ was about to go bonkers back there with all the drilling we were doing."

"Is it hard, you know, not having your squad with you?" Vixy asked, almost without warning.

The fox seemed to freeze a moment, and subsequently became colder in gesture, in posture, and speech also. This wasn't a topic he wanted to talk about here, but he wasn't going to refuse. He needed this off his chest.

"...Yeah." he answered in a gravely voice. James just looked down at the tray in front of him, pushing some the the food around with the spork– anything to avoid eye-contact in this state. "I didn't know them for very long, but when you're part of a squad, a _team,_ you look out for each other. It's kind of a military thing: you and your squads becomes almost like family, very quickly. A lot of the strength of that bond comes from knowing they could all be gone in an instant..."

Vixy leaned in, a concerned look in her emerald eyes, and slid a hand across the table toward one of his.  
>"Are you okay?"<p>

"Do you think I'd even _be_ here in the first place if I was?" James snapped at her.

"I'm sorry." She flinched back a little, caught off-guard by his outburst.

"I... didn't mean it to come out that way. You deserve better than that from me."  
>He looked down again, rubbing his hand against his forehead as a sigh escaped.<br>"I've just been cooped up in here so long, with nothing to do, and with only the _worst_ possible company–"

"Do you want me to leave?" Vixy asked him.

"No, don't go, please..." Jame's head snapped up, his urgent steel eyes imploring her to stay. "It's... all that doom-and-gloom Chakori's been telling you about has done nothing but stew in its own juices ever since the attack, and it's made me a miserable wreck. I'd really like to step away from all that, even if it's only for a little while. What I mean is... it's good to have somebody here I can just kick back and _talk_ with. I haven't felt this loose in... well, a really long time..."

"Okay..." she nodded slowly, and placed her hand on one of his; it felt cold, and clammy, needing to be warmed up. "What do you want to do then?"

"This is a is supposed to be some sort of a date, right?" James gently grasped Vixy's hand that she placed on his. It felt warm, smooth, and supple against his own hand, which he only just realized seemed stiff, and practically freezing. "So let's just talk, like it's a regular old date."

"Okay flyboy, but don't expect any miracles."

"There's no miracles, just whatever happens, and I'm really curious to see where this goes..."  
>He gave a nonchalant shrug, and continued on quite casually.<br>"So, what _'other things'_ do you do given the opportunity? Like, what brought you on a run out to Cerinia, with a news-crew?"

"Okay, first off, the Tribune does more than headline news, _much_ more..."  
>She tore her hand from his grasp, spouting back at James in a tone that was borderline indignant.<br>"The Lylat Tribune is one of the main media outlets for scientific, historical, and cultural conservation organizations. The Tribune's main mission is promoting awareness and encouraging education of fascinating, sometimes otherwise obscure subjects. It's not some corporate-sponsored, sensationalism-spewing yellow-journalism monster like some of these other 'media outlets'."

"Fair enough," James conceded with nod, and he started back on the food in front of him."but I don't think that answered my question though."

Vixy likewise returned some attention back to her tray. The packaged-prepared meal had cooled to a lukewarm, but she didn't mind, and neither did James it seemed.  
>"Well, I'm going to to school, film school, and I've been interning and working with the Tribune for a while now. They put me on one of their field crews, and I just happened to be on the roster when they picked a crew to send out to Cerinia. We were going to work with the Cerinia Institute in order to help document their work, let everyone back in Lylat know what's going on out there..."<p>

/

* * *

><p>

They were in Cerberus's medical bay, such as it was. It had all the necessary amenities for the purposes of shipboard medicine: a few beds, a storeroom tucked into one corner, a biochem lab station next to that, and other. Three people occupied the space; one was the stubbornly mysterious white lupine prisoner, clamped down on one of the beds with a series of restraining straps. Standing over him was the formidable figure of Malcolm Aries, arms crossed, and a look of weary impatience pulling on his graying, aged features. Lastly was Adrian Crane, who'd forgone his usual ankle-length duster in favor of a far less obstructive plain t-shirt, and a pair of medical gloves.

The gangly avian had just stepped away from the med bay's laboratory station, and was inserting a cartridge into a hypodermic autoinjector as he approached the occupied bed.

"If this doesn't work, I'm all out of options." Adrian stated.

"What's in it?" Malcolm asked, only mildly curious.

The avian remained quiet a few moments as he considered the best response, and prepared the injector tube for use. He finally just said, "...Quite a few things."

Adrian brought the injector tube up to the white wolf's neck, who just scowled back at the avian defiantly, daring him in his silence to do his worst. With a quick _pop_ and _hiss,_ Adrian unloaded the autoinjector's contents into the lupine prisoner's carotid artery.

Almost immediately, the wolf thrashed and twitched wildly, pulling against the restraints with every fiber of his might. His jaws remained clamped shut, but a muffled groan of pain still escaped through his barred, gnashed teeth. The bed creaked and rattled at the forces subjected to it from the prisoner's desperate flailing, and the straps seemed like they may even cut into his skin. When at last the white wolf settled down, he was panting heavily, sucking down whole lungfulls of breath and expelling them in less than a second. He was also sweating profusely, and his fur quickly became damp. Worse still were his eyes; bloodshot and wild, dancing all across the room without stopping even for an instant to focus on anything. Most terrible of all, on top of everything else, he was completely and utterly terrified.

"You... you have to stop." he managed between his deep raspy gasps.

Malcolm leaned over the nameless white wolf, and gazed deep into his twitching, horrified eyes.  
>"We're not stopping <em>anything<em> until you give us a reason to, you know this."

"The _ship!_" he spurted back, "You have to stop the ship! _Stop it!_"

"I will do no such thing my friend, not without a damn good reason." the elder ram paced back and forth above the prisoner's head, a skeptical sneer coming from his eyes, "Do you happen to have a damn good reason for me?"

"He knows... He's waiting..." the wolf answered, growing more and more frantic "He knows and he's _waiting!_"

"Who?" Malcolm asked.

"_Urrggnn!_ You have to stop! _Now!_ or it'll be too late!"

"Why?" The ram maintained his authoritative composure as best he could, but a few traces of worry started to crop up, "What's waiting for us?"

"Are we gonna stop the ship, or what?" Adrian asked, unable to stay silent any longer.

"AAAAUUUGGHHHH!" the wolf was screaming at the top of his lungs, so loud and guttural that it sounded as if he might tear his throat apart–

The entire med bay seem to have been thrown to one side, knocking Adrian and Malcolm off their feet entirely before they slammed into whatever they came across first, be it bed or wall. Alarms started blaring and squealing throughout the space.

"_Goddammit!_" Malcolm roared, staggering to his feet, "What the fat-flapping fuck just happened!"

_I Happened, _answered a voice without a voice,_ I am Harrow._

/

* * *

><p>

Author Notes:

Oh boy, what the heck have I gotten everyone into now? You'll just have to wait and see. :P

On another note, this is the first time I've written romance content in a long, _long_ while. I really hope It's even half as good as what I've produced in the past.

As always, any feedback of yours is welcome.


	7. The Grim Gambit

**惨い序盤の手**_**  
>The Grim Gambit<strong>_

Bridge duty.

It's never anywhere near as awesome as it sounds, especially during an interstellar jump situation. The view outside was just the whole lot of black nothing that the eyes are able to see outside a ship during a jump, the instruments were all idle as they displayed the fact that –get this– _nothing was changing_. Sure, time skips happily along as it always does, the distance to the destination grows shorter and shorter, but otherwise: same-old same-old.

Pigma Dengar sat in what would be the 'captain's chair', if for no other reason than it was in the center of the bridge. It didn't really matter; Adrian could run Cerberus from pretty much anywhere given a good connection to the ship's mainframe. The reason they put the young swine in there babysitting the bridge in the first place was, as they claimed, "to get you familiar with the ship." While that may have been true to some extent, it was more likely a case of "here's something to do that'll make you feel like a team-player" or even "we've all got more important things to worry about, and _someone _has to keep an eye on the ship." Might as well be the new guy, right?

Even doing checks on Cerberus's systems would've been more exciting, crawling through the access channels, checking up on all the bits and pieces to make sure they were all getting along. Okay, so maybe the diagnostic systems could take care of that with a few button presses, but where's the fun in that? Not to mention a computer system is only so reliable; sometimes you just _have_ to see it with your eyeball to be absolutely sure.

But no. Here Pigma was, lounging lazily back in a larger, underused chair from which the order "Engage!" would look and sound awesome, but he wasn't idle though. In front of Pigma, what would normally have been a holographic tactical display for the command crew, was a three-dimensional representation of a four-dimensional puzzle cube. It's really much simpler than it first seems: in a one-dimensional situation, you have two 'sides': forward/backward, in two dimensions, you add left/right, third is up/down. The fourth dimension in this case were the axes 'in' vs. 'out', with an extra two 'sides' added to represent them... Okay, once you cross the threshold of the familiar 3D world into the fourth dimension, you kind-of have to tell the eyes to 'chill out', because it's just a _representation_ of a fourth dimension, not an actual fourth dimension, like when a picture is drawn on a flat piece of paper, but _looks_ like it has depth and dimension. If you can jump that hurdle, and have your eyes hold onto that willing suspension of disbelief, solving a 4D puzzle cube becomes just like any other: figure out the algorithm sequences, snag the shortcuts, and solve away–

Before he knew what was happening, Pigma was thrown forward out of the captain's chair through the hologram image. He landed face-down some few feet ahead on the floor, sirens and alerts ringing throughout the bridge.

"Pigma!" Malcolm's voice roared through the intercom, "Status report! Now!"

"I'm-on-it-I'm-on-it!..."  
>The swine scrambled to his feet back to the captain's chair, switching the holographic display to the automated diagnostic display. He was caught off his guard, completely blindsided, but there was too much panicked adrenaline going through Pigma to bother feeling the shock.<br>"The primary reactor failsafe's been triggered, we're running on backup. Somebody's gotta get down there and reset it, see what the damage is–"

"Great! Now what the hell happened to do that?" Malcolm barked, "What's going on out there?"

"Uhhh..." Pigma switched through the readouts to exterior sensors, and reported his findings, "I'm reading some radiation outside, and some scattered debris, like maybe someone's detonated a ship's reactor core in our path."

"Is there anyone out there?" the ram asked.

"I... I can't see anything." the swine answered, double-checking the instruments, "If there _is _anyone, they're hiding in the debris..."

/

* * *

><p>

Back inside Cerberus's brig, the same alarms and alerts heard around the ship were here also, ringing in the confined space. The table and chairs, along with all the items that were on them, lay strewn across the floor in a jumbled mess. Among the mess was a vulpine pair: one man, one woman.

James was able to stagger to his feet first out of the shambles, some of the half-eaten food smeared across his flight-suit. He shook himself off in a second, and sprung into action as his trained-in soldiery switch clicked on.

"You okay?" He asked quickly, lending a hand to help Vixy up.

"I'm not hurt," she said as she came to her senses, "not badly..."

It was the first time she'd seen James McCloud in this battle-ready state. Those once empty, briefly happy and carefree blue eyes became keen and sharp as a pair of razor blades. These were the eyes and face of someone who'd killed before, and would dutifully kill again when required of him. It was impressive, frightening, and deeply unsettling all at once. Then again, he was on their side, and that last thought came with a precious scrap of relief.

Before there was any time for anything else, the outer door to the corridor burst open, and Chakori came into the brig bounding with urgency.

"There has been a..." she paused only for a moment, fishing for an appropriate word, "situation."

"Yeah, I figured as much." James replied with just enough sarcasm infused in his voice to also say silently, _"No, really? The explosions and alarms aren't obvious enough?"_

"I mean a different situation," the ashen leopardess clarified, choosing to ignore his tone, "one that concerns _you _specifically."

"What do you mean?" the fox asked, now curious and a little worried.

"Come quickly." Chakori said as she turned back the way she came, and beckoned for James and Vixy to follow her out.

/

* * *

><p>

"_Ooh,_ this Harrow fella's a real_ spookster,_ ain't he?" Malcolm mocked as he cut the intercom with the bridge.

Adrian scooped his favored coat and pulled it on, then turned to exit the medical bay.  
>"You keep trying to get something from our guy here." He said to Malcolm as he started out, "I'll head down to engineering and–"<p>

"No!" the prisoner pleaded with a frightened gasp, "_Don't_ do it, _don't_ take the bait."

Adrian was somewhat startled by the wolf's sudden, desperate words, but the slim avian collected himself and continued on his way, "I'm going down there. We're sitting ducks until we reset the reactor failsafe."

"Wait just a minute, Ardy" the ram said, positioning himself next to the frantic lupine. "Now, you'd best explain yourself son."

"He knows, and he's waiting..." the ghostly white wolf said once again, starting to calm down a bit, "He'll pick you all off one by one from the shadows. That's how he works."

"You mean he's already aboard the ship?" Adrian asked, curious, and more than a little worried.

"How did he get aboard?" Malcolm demanded, "Where is he?"

"I don't know, but if you take the bait, he will be there, and he will kill whoever you send." the wolf said with grim certainty.

"That's not a problem." Adrian assured, "I'll bring backup–"

"Then he _won't_ be there!" the wolf snapped, interrupting him, "He's not stupid, he won't spring his trap if you just try to trap him back. He'll slink away and try something else... something _worse._"

"How in hell is he going to know?" the ram questioned again, growing more irritated with each passing second, "Who are his accomplices?"

"He'll know, he'll just _know, _and he'll hunt you all down and knock each and every one of you until there's nobody left... and then he'll kill me too."

"Then cooperate with us, help us." Adrian said, trying to calm the frantic prisoner down, "We can protect you."

"No, you can't, not from him..."  
>He started to... 'chuckle' might've been an appropriate verb, but it was such a morbid, ghastly, almost sob-like laugh. It was the utterances of someone who'd accepted his fate, and didn't mind being the bearer of doom-and-gloom news.<br>"Shit, you can't even protect _yourselves._"

"We'll just see about that." the ram replied with outward confidence, but hiding a troubled inward concern

"You have _no_ idea what you chumps are up against, do you?" the wolf said, again in his confident morbid certainty, "Harrow is Cerinian, a damned _bluefur, _and a freaking powerful one too."

Adrian Crane and Malcolm Aries were struck silent, but for only a moment. Another second had the ram's comm headset buzzing with the irritated voice of one of his teammates, "Mal!" Scott Aberdeen barked over the comm, "We've got a problem down here..."

"What kind of problem?"

/

* * *

><p>

Scott was in Cerberus's main cargo bay, where the survivors from the attack had made themselves at home. The space itself hadn't changed in the slightest, still the dull gray four walls with bits and pieces around the floor, but the people had changed, and for the worst. No longer were they the quiet, shell-shocked bystanders who were simply relieved to be alive; no, they were restless, agitated, and irritated. The air in the room was filled with their grunting murmurs, their hushed whispers, the telltale signs of a powder-keg crowd on the verge of becoming something ugly...

Scott was standing sentinel, geared up with a tactical armor vest, his high-powered handgun in its holster, and the ever-present sword strapped to his back. The terrier watched over the gathered people, like an uneasy shepherd, bound to guard a frightened flock that could transform into a pack of predators at any time.

Scott turned around at the sound of the opening door, and saw Chakori leading James and Vixy into the cargo bay. He was expecting them, as apart of a plan cobbled together on the spot, but the terrier was only slightly relieved to have them here, "I hope this works, Chaks–"

"There he is!" someone from the crowd shouted.

"That's the Cerinian!" another spouted.

"It's that damned _pilot!_" someone else yelled out, "He survived when his whole squad perished! The bastard set them up!"

They were all looking at James, each and every one of them with vicious glares, some pointing fingers, or shaking fists. One could almost see the torches and pitchforks they could've been carrying if this were a rural town instead of a space vessel. The fox was taken aback by this sudden antagonization, that the very same people he was bound to risk his life to defend would now turn against him, and accuse him of murder. There was an urge within James that wanted nothing more than to scream back at the crowd, to tell them all how completely and utterly stupid they were being to believe what they were saying. That urge however seemed to have gotten lost in the fox's baffled, speechless astonishment. All he could do was stand there, looking dumb and clueless, while the crowd in front of him branded him a traitor...

Amidst the sudden racket and awkwardness, Vixy Reinard stepped forward in front of James and the two members of Cerberus's crew, confronting the simmering angry mob.  
>"How can you <em>say<em> something like that?" she scolded, lancing through the gathered crowd with adamant emerald eyes, "Don't you know what he's _been_ through? Shame on you!"

"Vixy, get away from him!"  
>She recognized the speaker, it was one of the field crew, a normally quiet golden-furred canid named Shane. She considered him a friend, and yet even he had gotten caught up in the mass hysteria.<br>"I don't know what that... _thing_ did to you, but it has to stop." Shane pleaded, "You can _fight_ this–"

"Pipe down, the lot of ye!" Scott roared, shouting down any other attempts from the crowd, "I've known Jim here since back when he was a wee lad. I tell ye, he's no Cerinian. He's naught but pure Lylatin vulpine."

"How do you know?" someone from the seething crowd asked.

"What're ye playing at?" the terrier responded, trying to pick out the dumb question asker from the group.

"Those bluefurs can screw with your mind." the speaker explained, "They can deceive you: make you think thoughts, or hear sounds, or see visions. Those 'memories' you have of him, they might not even be _real._"

"And it's easy for him to dye his fur brown." another added.

"I saw him haul off that other guy, the white-furred one!" someone else interjected, "and I haven't seen him since!"

"It's because he knew the secret!" the first accuser conjectured, adding to the mob's boiling pot of fear, "I bet the white furred guy _knew _he's Cerinian! And the bluefur _killed_ him because of it!"

"Murderer!"

"Traitor!"

"Get him!"

Just as the crowd was mustering to swarm, Scott stepped up to challenge them, drawing both his handgun and sword, brandishing them toward the crowd.  
>"Stay back! Or so help me, I'll cut down every last bloody one of ye!"<br>The terrier's burning eyes scorched into the mass of irritated refugees, matching their angry sneers with a fiery grimace.

"Like _hell_ you would!" someone scoffed, unimpressed.

"Oh yeah you little scrapper?" another dared, stepping up to challenge the terrier, "Then put your money where your mouth–"

_* Blam! *_

Scott fired a blazing blaster shot, right over the head of the speaker, silencing him with the blatant threat, and drawing several near-panicked gasps from the rest.  
>"So..." the terrier questioned, "anyone <em>else<em> feelin' daft?"

Nobody else dared try to talk back to Scott after that, and just stood at their places in frozen, petrified shock. There was no way to know how long it would last though, and so Chakori took seized the chance to lead James and Vixy out of the cargo hold away from the mob, into the corridor outside.

Both of the vulpines heaved great sighs of relief when the door slid shut behind them, but they were far from comforted by their experience. James was the first to break his long-standing silence, turning to the ashen leopardess, "_What, _dare I ask, were you hoping to accomplish in there?"

"I was hoping, by having you there in the flesh, we could let us talk some sense into them..." Chakori began her answered, slowly shaking her head, disappointed, "But they seem to be too far-gone, as if something is fueling their fears..."

/

* * *

><p>

"Harrow, you magnificent bastard..." Malcolm Aries grumbled as he closed the comm channel. "accusing some other poor fella of being the scumbag you are."

"He's using them as a distraction..." the white-furred wolf explained, "a smokescreen to hide his movements."

Adrian stood there, running his hand along his slender beak while consumed in a flurry of thoughts, until he finally came to a conclusion. "Mal, we've gotta get those people off the ship."

"I think that calls for a might bit of explanation..." the ram prompted, and waited for Adrian's response.

"However this Harrow creep is playing on their fears, whether it's Cerinian hocus-pocus or just plain old stirring up trouble, we can't afford to let him have them as leverage." the slim avian expounded, "We need them all off the ship."

"No good." Malcom said with a shake of his head, "As far as we know, there's hostiles outside, waiting to trash them. Pain-in-the-butt they may be right now, but we are _not_ going to send those folks to their death, not after saving their asses."

"Then you should just kill them all, right here, right now." Adrian retorted grimly, laying out the unpleasant ultimatum before them, "If the situation keeps going on like this, we're liable to have a full-blown mutiny on our hands, and there's no way we can contain everyone if they get violent."

"And that's when he will strike, when you're too busy to fight back." the bound lupine prisoner said, growing more calm and collected as he remained there.

"There's gotta be another way..." Malcolm said, rubbing his forehead, trying to come up with something else.

"He's not after the innocent people, but he'll use them as long as they're available." the wolf recited, his voice still steady in its morbid certainty, "Even if you don't care for _their_ lives, they're nothing but a liability."

"I don't like it any more than you do..." Adrian said, finding himself a little astonished to be agreeing with the prisoner, " but we can either give these people a fighting chance at getting away with their lives, or we'll be forced into gunning them down ourselves."

"Alright..." the ram accepted, letting out "I take it you've got some kind of plan in the works?"

/

* * *

><p>

Pigma Dengar was once again in his place on Cerberus's bridge, minding his, and everyone else's business all at once. The few minutes since the ship was knocked out of its jump were nothing if not tense; Malcolm and Adrian forming a decision, Scott barely containing an angry mob, and that spooky white furred guy finally talking. In truth, the young swine had little better to do than monitor the ship's communications and sift through the surveillance feeds. The thought had crossed his mind that Harrow might go after him here in the bridge, being all alone, but the bridge was already locked down tighter than a miser's wallet. Still, Pigma had taken the precaution of going into the bridge's weapon locker and helping himself to some firepower. You can't be too careful in uncertain times like these...

"Pigma." Adrian's voice called out over the intercom.

"What's up?" he replied.

"I'm in the mainframe right now, and I'm going to initiate Cerberus's Lethe procedure."

"Yeah, I know..."  
>The swine cycled the console into one of its security feeds, showing the ship's mianframe, where Adrian, Malcom, and that other prisoner all stood. The wolf looked like he was in handcuffs from the picture–<p>

"So you've been eavesdropping on our comm chatter." Adrian realized, and he looked straight through the security camera at Pigma.

"Sorry."

"Don't you apologize; don't you _dare_ apologize for doing what I taught you..."  
>It was like Adrian could somehow see straight right through the camera, see Pigma's sheepish squirming, even though there wasn't any way he could.<br>"I need you to trust me for now, and I need you to do _exactly_ what I say."

"Okay, shoot."

Adrian turned away from the security camera and went to work on the mainframe's interface.  
>"I'm preparing the Lethe procedure, just in case, and I'm splitting encryption key into two parts. I'll upload one part onto the bridge interface for you to take, and I'll keep the other with me."<p>

"Why's that?"

"Because you're not staying aboard, that's why." the dark clad avian explained, "You, McCloud and Scott are all gonna get those refugees off this ship. They're our best flyers, and we'll need to make sure the people are kept safe on their way out. This is just a precaution."

"Okay then, so where are we heading?" Pigma opened up the navigation interface, searching the immediate area for known ports, "It's not like there's any destination options the shuttles can reach."

"Farbound station." Adrian answered," It's within a short jump's distance from here for Cerberus, and the shuttles should be able to make it."

They'd passed through it on their way out, most ships bound for Cerinia do, but looking over the file on Farbound station, there seemed to be a problem.  
>"Getting the shuttles to Farbound on their own will be pushing their range, I don't know if they'll–"<p>

"I'm aware, but last I checked you agreed to trust me..." the dark clad avian looked up through the security camera one last time, and added with a tone of finality, "Get everyone onto those shuttles, and get to Farbound Station. We'll meet you there."

Behind Pigma, the entrance to the bridge unlocked and opened itself. That should've been impossible, the bridge was in a state of lockdown, no one could've gotten in, right? In a brief flash of panic, the swine went for the pistol he'd gotten, and swung it toward the bridge entrance, expecting the worst–

"Whoa there lad! Watch the firearms!"

It was Scott, of course; he had the proper clearances to get through the lockdown. He had McCloud there with him too, and both had armed themselves.

"Sorry." His heart still racing, Pigma lowered his weapon, "Just been a little jumpy since, you know..."

"Don't worry about it." Scott reassured, "Come on, we're getting off." and he beckoned for Pigma to follow them out.

"Yeah, just a second..."  
>Before logging off and leaving, the young swine made sure to download his part of the encryption key onto a memory.<p>

/

* * *

><p>

It was an all too familiar scene.

Not a week earlier, these same people were being led onto the exact same shuttles to disembark from a ship in deep space, much in the same manner as before. The main difference between then and now was the fact that it was Cerberus's hangar bay this time, instead of the Amity's, and the people far more restless and agitated. And just like the last time, Chakori was there to see it, watching over the moving mass of people once again as she made sure everyone made it onto their shuttles safely.

After the earlier fiasco, James had elected to stay back until everyone was ready to go, and went with Scott to get Pigma out of the bridge. No one dared walk the corridors alone, lest they make easy pickings for Harrow, or whoever else may be infesting the ship, if anyone.

Just as the last of the gathered refugees boarded the shuttles, the hangar entrance opened, and three familiar figures entered: Scott, James and Pigma, but there was something else. Trailing several paces behind the arriving party was a fourth figure, wearing a black hooded sweatshirt, eyes downcast.

"Hold on," the ashen leopardess told them as they passed, "it looks like there's a straggler..."

She stepped forward to the mysterious newcomer, loosening the handgun at her thigh holster. The other didn't even acknowledge her presence, not until they were a few feet apart in the corridor, and he just stopped; at least this person looked like a 'he'. The ambiguity cleared away almost immediately when he looked up, revealing his sharp, decidedly male vulpine features, and the telltale blue color of his fur. Then a manic toothy grin took over his jaws, and a pair of pale lights flashed from his eyes–

In an instant, the Cerinian leapt into the air with a quick spin, and produced a staff in his hands seemingly from nowhere that he spun in a quick flourish as he came down. He jammed one end of the staff into the floor as he landed, and it felt as if an earthquake had gone off, throwing Chakori back off her feet from the blast.

The leopardess rolled back onto her feet, at the same time drawing and firing several shots from her blaster. The torrent of blasterfire had little effect though, as the Cerinian had enveloped himself in a protective field that harmlessly absorbed the shots, and he advanced toward Chakori unhindered. With her firearm rendered moot, the feline fighter tossed it aside and drew her distinct forward deflected knife instead, diving into furious combat against the Cerinian.

The movements were fast, too fast to easily capture in detail, but in general, Chakori tried to keep as close as possible –inside the arcs of the staff– in order to grapple her opponent and deliver the gouging knife strikes. The Cerinian was proving a slippery one though, twisting his way through and out of the leopardess's every advance, using his staff as a lever to both keep her at bay and pry her off.

In another moment, the blue vulpine broke away completely with a twisting aerial kick, followed quickly mid-air with blast out from the base of his staff that sent him rocketing away a short distance, staggering Chakori back in the process. The Cerinian hit the ground in a sprint down the corridor, but not a moment later Scott had his sword in hand, and already disappeared in a blue streak toward the bluefur.

In his sprint, the Cerinian pointed his staff toward the ground behind him and projected a spray of liquid there, some of which vaporized into a white mist. When the terrier rematerialized with a mighty sword-stroke, he found his feet were not on firm ground, but on a layer of ice. Instead of coming to a controlled stop, Scott was sliding off-balance. Before he could react, a swirling staff swing took him out at his shins, sending the terrier skidding to a halt on his face, while the Cerinian kept right on running...

Malcolm Aries had just appeared around the next corner, assault carbine in hand. The ram was greeted immediately by several blazing shots –almost like blaster bolts– from the charging Cerinian's staff. The ram had only an instant to dive behind cover on the opposite side of the corridor, shots from the staff still raining down at him.

In that same moment, Adrian swung out from behind the corner, shotgun at the ready and–

* Boom! *

The bluefur's head exploded in a pulpy red mess while the rest of his corpse tripped up and skidded to a stop at the avian's feet, or at least it would have, if the Cerinian was actually where he was supposed to be...

There was a momentary lull in this realization, at which point Adrian found his shotgun had been knocked free from his grasp, and his feet had been knocked out from under him, leaving him sprawled face-down on the hard metal floor. He turned his head, and only just saw the Cerinian turn another corner into Cerberus at his sprinting pace...

The avian pulled himself onto his feet, and found James and Pigma standing in awed shock, not doing anything.  
>"Go on!" Adrian shouted at them, waiving an arm toward the hangar bay, "Get out of here!"<p>

"I'm staying–" the terrier protested as he staggered uo, and found one of his legs uncooperative from the blow it'd taken. "We can _take_ this bastard!"

"We're _not_ gonna sit and debate about this, Scott." Malcom growled, "We stick to the plan–"

"Tae _Hell_ with the bloody plan!" Scott roared, limping toward his compatriots. "I'm gonna gut that filthy wanker–" he stopped short, almost tripping over when the pain in his leg spiked.

"Plan or not, you _know_ what he will do with those people as long as they are still aboard." Chakori reminded him, her voice sharp and icy, "You have to get them away."

Scott stood there and simmered a moment, and at one instant seemed like he'd erupt with argument once again, but he didn't, not this time. The terrier clamped the lid down, and contained the furious fires in his mind.  
>"Fine." he uttered in a gravely voice, and shoved his sword back into its harness.<br>With nothing else, Scott turned and headed back toward the hangar bay, gesturing for James and Pigma to follow, and they did.

"Look," James began as they walked, "if you feel that strongly about it–"

"Even if I _did_ feel that strongly about it, damned bluefur put me leg out of business for a while." the terrier spat bitterly, "I won't be any good in a fight, and they'll need us out there if there _is_ an ambush waiting."

"And if there isn't?" Pigma asked.

Scott didn't answer him, not unless a disgusted grunt counted. He just made his way to his fearsome attack fighter and prepared for takeoff. James simply went through the motions laid out for the mission, such as it was, and likewise prepared his Tatpara-27 fighter for flight. Pigma boarded and took control of Cerberus's heavily armed shuttle.

Scott opened a general comm channel between the shuttles as he started taking off, and others soon followed-suit.  
>"All units, set your jump location to Farbound station, and make the jump as soon as you're able. Stay alert out there."<p>

"Look, dude, I'm well..." someone from one of the shuttles responded to Scott, sheepish and awkward, "Sorry if I ever, you know, maybe said that our pilot guy was a bluefur or–"

"Quiet on the comm." the terrier cut him off, paying him little heed.

The shuttles and their escort soon found themselves outside, in the silent blackness of space. Here at least the light from Lylat's home double-star could actually be seen; a bright light at the end of an infinite tunnel, but still far off. There was suspiciously little in the way of activity, no ambush waiting for them like they feared. The whole thing started to look like an incredible waste of resources, leaving capable personnel out where they weren't needed while–

"Wait, I'm getting something..." Pigma announced over the channel.

Sure enough, several active blips began appearing on the instruments. At first, the computer couldn't resolve the difference between the floating debris and active spacecraft, but it made the adjustments soon enough. The dark painted craft were then marked with brackets on Jame's HUD, which identified a variety of fightercraft models. The more distressing fact of these new contacts however was–

"They're going for the ship!" James realized.

Instead of engaging the escaping shuttles, the shadowy fighters began swarming toward Cerberus, which was still a sitting duck.

"The Hell they are!" Scott roared over the comm.

The large Havoc attack fighter broke off from the formation, thundering toward the silent swarm with guns blazing. A few of the dark craft were shredded almost instantly by the heavy firepower, but the swarm quickly scattered after this, and a chaotic dogfight ensued.

James broke formation also, circling toward the swirling mayhem to support his wingman. A mangled wreck would occasionally drift out from the mess, but nothing that looked like Scott's Havoc. The terrier and his heavy fighter were still in one piece, shooting up the place. All the same, the fox made sure to target and pick off any of the fighters that had a shot at Scott, using the distraction to the greatest advantage he could muster from it.

Without any other warning, the cruiser Cerberus suddenly flared back to life, firing its massive, oversized thruster array and sending the vessel soaring away. In another few moments, the ship winked completely out of existence: Cerberus had made a jump, but to where exactly was a mystery...

The hostile fighters that were still intact decided that sticking around wasn't such a great idea anymore, and used the momentary distraction to break off and make jumps of their own away from the pair of ace pilots.

"What the bloody hell was _that_ for?" Scott asked, to nobody in particular.

"We're supposed to be headed to Farboud." Pigma reminded him, "I bet that's where they went... They're gonna be fine." the final phrase carried a subtle hint of doubt, one that everyone was feeling to some extent.

"Right..." The terrier grumbled through the comm. "Let's get moving then."

With nothing at all left for them here, the shuttles and two fighters jumped away from the debris field toward their destination of Farbound station.

/

* * *

><p>

Author notes:

Hey guys, and Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays/Joyous What-Have-You!

I meant to get this out to you all sooner than today, I really mean it, but you know, the hours have ways of creeping up on you.

Yep, that's an honest-to-goodness Cerinian there, using the ubiquitous "Krystal Adventures Staff", and utilizing just about every 'special power' the staff is supposed to have in that brief fight. I'll be honest with you: I really felt like this chapter, from a writing standpoint at least, ran the gauntlet like a maniac. I didn't go to painstaking efforts to clean up all the details and make it pretty-like, which is kind-of the intention, being a faster-paced actiony type chapter. I'm not entirely sure if it was effective or not, so I'm counting on you the reader to fill me in on that part; I can't always make these assessments by myself.

(Look, I know you guys are reading this, a whole bunch of you too. Just remember: the courtesy to let the writer know what you thought of their work is always, _always_ appreciated, no matter how inadequate you think your review may be. Your feedback is never unwelcome here, and I mean it, don't be shy or intimidated or anything.)

Take care everybody, and have fun during your preferred holiday(s)!


	8. Into Oblivion

Author note:

I guess the turnaround for this one wasn't too bad: a new chapter up in less than three weeks. I wouldn't count on being this fast in the near future though, since I've got school and work coming straight at me now. In any case, I owe a few old friends a peek at their work now that I've got this up. I _always_ review what I read, because I know the courtesy to let the writer know what I thought of their work is always welcomed, no matter how inadequate I think a review may be. A similar courtesy would be highly appreciated here as well, just so you know... *cough*leaveareviewyoulazydolt*cough*

Take care!

/

* * *

><p>

The McNerney auditorium of the Corneria City University was packed to capacity people, of all kinds that were to be found in an academic setting. There were plenty of young scruffy student types in their jeans and street clothes, as well as several carefully prepared clean-cut professional types in their suits, and even quite a few older folks who couldn't be bothered to meticulously pamper themselves, and settled for subdued simple and tasteful in their attire. The eclectic collection of people here filled the space with a quiet, yet excited murmur as they waited...

The auditorium itself had a fairly rudimentary design, with hundreds of chairs in a rough arena arrangement, sloping upward from the stage. The space came equipped with a projector screen and corresponding projector in the rear, as well as several inconspicuous speakers for amplification. The most striking feature however was the roof: the entire ceiling of the McNerney auditorium was transparent, allowing natural sunlight from the bright clear day outside to wash into the space, until it changed.

The gigantic window-roof was made of 'smart glass', which could alter its transparency on command. When the window roof-started do fade dark, shutting out the sunlight and dimming the space, the attendees in the McNerney auditorium responded with wash of silent anticipation. Then a set of lights faded up at the front of the auditorium, and the projector screen lit up, showing a simple logo: a circle with a couple flowing swooshes laid over it.

A single figure then stepped onto the stage: vulpine, with fiery red-orange fur, and keen confident eyes. He dressed simply, wearing a pair of slacks and rolling up the sleeves of his button-down shirt. He looked like he could be mid-aged, but carried himself across the stage with a youthful, almost defiant vigor in spite of it.

When the fox came to a stop at center-stage, the image on the screen behind him was joined by a simple set of words in bold print: _Own Phoenix, _and _Space Dynamics._

"Business is simple..." Owen Phoenix said, with his higher, younger sounding voice boosted through the amplifiers, "People want things, and other people provide them, but it's never that simple, is it?"

He didn't stand still while he spoke, but moved back and forth across the empty stage, filling it up with his presence. The fox often looked out into the quiet entranced audience, engaging with them, as if he were having a simple one-to-one discussion, but with an entire auditorium full of people.

"Often there's many people providing basically the same product, and they want you to buy their product X instead of the other's product Y. How do you entice the needy customer to go for one versus the other? How do you sell _your _product, and not lose out to your competitors?"

Owen let that hang in the air for a second, then offered up a shrug and a sigh as he moved on.

"Well I'm sorry to say that's a heavily loaded question, and different people will have different answers. None of them are necessarily 'wrong'; you will find plenty of billionaires who put out the lowest quality products in their market, using the most deceptive underhanded tactics at their disposal, and they will tell you that, as long as they're making money, they're doing it right. Likewise, you will also find scores of groundbreaking enterprising people with outstanding products to match their ambitions, and yet they fall flat, and their product never makes it to the customers' hands. They can be considered 'wrong' despite a clearly superior product.

"Here's an example: lets say a company provides body armor for a major army. They've provided that body armor for years, they even have a contract so the army will always buy their body armor, and it has worked well enough for a time. The troops are protected, the company makes healthy profit, and everyone is happy. Years later, firearms technology improves, the army's troops are dying left right and center from it, and the company is asked to develop armor to counter this threat. However, the company has grown complacent over the years; they've used their profits to buy influence, bribing the rule-writers to tweak the rules in order to protect their own well being and secure their place. They are mainly interested in providing product insofar as it serves their own ends, and not the ends of the customer. Sure, they'll give the needy army what they asked for, but they'll claim inflated and exorbitant fees to cover 'research and development'.

"Meanwhile, another company –a younger, fledgling company– claims to have already developed a body armor that counters the new threat. They've even had it rigorously tested to make sure it worked right, but there's something amiss. Another test of this new body armor outside this young company claims that it _doesn't_ work, and the old company makes sure to point out this failed test when the needy army checks it out. Soon after, that young and fresh company fails, smothered by a barrage of attacks on their product seemingly from everywhere, and that newfangled body armor was never worn or used by a single soldier anywhere, ever.

Owen Phoenix's tone had become grim, and foreboding.

"This is the status quo of the business world, in _any _given market. Those who are already at the top are naturally content to stay there, consolidating their power and influence, and shouting down any who dare challenge them. Yet as the actual product or service they're supposed to provide becomes obsolete, the company begins to fester, and stagnate, but they remain at the top in spite of it. This is because they have fortified themselves in the mightiest castles their vast wealth can buy, which allows them to withstand even the most stubborn sieges set against them.

"I'm not going to sugar-coat it for you, the deck has already been meticulously stacked against each and every one of you from the start. The world of business dirty, mean, cut-throat, and full of remorseless cloak-and-dagger debauchery. It is not a challenge to be met by the faint-of-heart, and if you have any second thoughts about getting into business at this point, then you should save yourself the trouble and back out now while your good name is still intact.

Owen Phoenix stood there at center-stage, arms at his hips, sharp eyes scanning through the dimmed mass within the McNerney auditorium, daring someone to say or do something. With his unspoken challenge unanswered, the fox continued on, building now on a tone of determination.

"Alright. So you're still with me then? You're wondering perhaps, _'How could someone possibly dive into this harsh, merciless Hell and emerge on top?'_ The answer is is quite simple, yet surprisingly tricky to understand. It is the very same thing that has brought on all the greatest changes in civilized history: the answer is Innovation.

"It was Innovation that transformed the novelty of black powder into mighty bombard cannons, which crumbled the castles of ancient feudal kings. It was Innovation that finally saw combustible fossil fuels supplanted by fusion power as the dominant means of energy production. And it was Innovation that catapulted the fledgling Space Dynamics company ahead of the pack in aerospace industry, and set the standard followed by other technology companies today.

"I know what you're thinking: _'Well duh, Owen! That's such a dumb and cliché answer!' _Well, lets go back to the example of the young company's body armor again. Now, instead of doing what so many other companies before them have done –which is restricted mainly to controlled laboratory testing of their armor– the young company does something odd, outside the box, and controversial according to many. They take their new armor, and give it freely to people best prepared to test it in actual field conditions: independent mercenaries.

"Mercenaries are not bound by the stifling several-billion-credit supplier contracts as armies are, and because of their highly independent and adventurous nature, mercs are often more than willing to take a new piece of equipment or gear and put it through its paces as they do their contracts. Plus, if they don't have to cough up the credits to get their hands on it, all the better for them.

"This is field testing in the truest form there is. If a company is so truly confident in their product that they will bet their reputation _and_ the lives of others on how their product performs in the real world, let them, because the end results truly are worth the risk. There are no dirty underhanded deal-sweetening favors to swing the market, and the final verdict cannot be spun or twisted by outside interpretations. What you see is what you get, and it does exactly what it does: no fine print, no sleazy smear tactics, no nothing."

"This is the key policy of Space Dynamics's R&D and marketing departments, which has shot this company so far ahead so quickly. With our products already out there in capable hands, anyone in the market for a large-scale supplier need only look to the small-scale successes. When they see that our products work with outstanding results, there is little hesitation or anxiety on the buyer's part, because they know they're getting a product that works with proven and honest results.

"As you can imagine, this method drives the stubborn old fat-cats in the industry crazy to no end." this drew a couple of subdued laughs and light chuckles from the auditorium. Owen Phoenix just stood there, and smiled. "It's just like I said: business is simple..."

Someone else entered onstage, heading straight for Owen, disregarding the audience. It was Wallace Hargreave, one of Phoenix's oldest and most trusted assistants, and he held a tablet clenched in one fist as he approached. The aging weasel had a look of confused and uneasy fear about him, but also of solemn purpose.

When he reached Owen, he simply showed him the tablet's screen, which contained a single line of text:

_[I have traveled the river into oblivion, and lay anchored in the shadows of the foulest world.]_

When the fox saw this, he froze in a moment of hesitation, but only for a moment. Another instant later saw Owen Phoenix silently storming off the stage, much to the confusion of those gathered in the McNerney auditorium.

/

* * *

><p><strong>虚無に行って<strong>_**  
>Into Oblivion<strong>_

* * *

><p>

Farbound Station was the last port of call for vessels making the Sauria/Cerinia run from Lylat. It was still technically in the Lylatin orbital system, but so far flung from the host star that a complete orbit would take several hundred years. This was just about the maximum reasonable range for vessels bound to stay within the Lylat system, but even then, a trip to Farbound from Corneria could last a day or two for the fastest available craft, and up to a week for slower hauling barges. Making the great interstellar jumps, and within acceptable travel times, required careful and meticulous drive calibration, great expenditures of energy and lengthy prep-time: luxuries that most in-system jumps neither needed nor required. This was Farbound's main purpose.

It served mainly as a supply depot, providing fuel, food, water, parts and other consumables to the ships bound for the stars, making it fairly sparse station for its size. As such, the station was dominated first and foremost by gargantuan warehouses and expansive storage facilities to accommodate all these necessities. In a secondary capacity, Farbound also served as much-needed layover point for the crews of these vessels, providing places to rest, relax, and at least a semblance of comfort. It was no resort, not in the slightest, but the station came about as amenity endowed as a run-of-the-mill spaceport terminal. This mainly included lodgings, a meager collection of shops, and a small smattering of eateries.

One of these was a café, probably modeled after Zonessian urban cafés. The tables and chairs were arrayed 'outside', in a small area of the station's wide open and spacious central rotunda, where most of the shops and other amenities were housed. The area wasn't especially populated, some of the refugees from the earlier fiasco were still around though, gradually coming to their senses. James McCloud and Vixy Reinard were at one of these tables, sharing a small meal between them. The Cooneys were there also, sitting quietly, sharing a table with young Pigma, while Scott paced restlessly between the two tables.

"They should've been here by now." the terrier muttered, to himself as much as everyone else, "We've been sittin' here, on our arses, in this dump, for the better part of half a _week,_ and we haven't had so much as a peep from'em! What's takin' them so bloody long out there?"

Scott had been saying such things ever since they arrived at Farbound, and that was about four days ago. Nobody bothered to reply to him; everyone had come to accept that Scott ran his mouth because he was nervous, concerned for his teammates. In honesty, he was articulating what was silently on everyone's minds: it _had _been too long, and too quiet. While the others grew quieter and more grim in their worry, Scott became more talkative, more restless.

"They'll be here." Rick reminded Scott once again, "They've always pulled through, and they will again."

Rick had lost count of how many times he'd said that phrase, or variations thereof. He barely believed it himself anymore, and just said the words out of reflex.

Time was a strange thing aboard Farbound station: all other ships heading into the station kept track of their time by their own clocks, making whatever time Farbound ran on essentially moot. There was no 'day' or 'night'; it all just blended together into a perpetual now, and in this case, a perpetual sense of anxious anticipation. They may have been out of danger, but there was little comfort to be found.

James ad Vixy were similarly uneasy. In all the time they'd been seeing each other aboard Farbound, they hadn't talked much, or grown any more intimate. It wasn't that they weren't attracted to one-another, they were, but it was that dark and ominous cloud of concern, looming over every interaction that stunted any kind of relationship development between them. As awkward as it was, they in their stubbornness still sought comfort from each other nonetheless, even if it was nothing more than sitting at a café, sharing a simple meal, and listening to Scott babble incessantly.

This time was a little different though.

"The Tribune crew is heading back to Corneria." Vixy said without much warning, "We ship out of here in an hour."

James didn't react, not right away at least. Another moment later saw him look up, and offer her a quick nod.

"So you're leaving then." James figured.

"Yeah, I have to." she responded, but with a subtle hint of disappointment, "The studio is going to want a full report on all this, and then–"

"I understand." James added before she could trail off, reaching out to one of her hands, "It's your duty."

"Yeah, well, it's been..." she stood up from their table, unsure of what exactly to say, "I guess I can't really 'nice', since, you know..."

"We're gonna see each other again, right?" He asked, bypassing the awkwardness, "I'm based right out of Corneria City."

"Sure, we'll keep in touch." Vixy said, and added smiling, "Might even have a proper date someday."

"That'd sure be something different, wouldn't it?" James snarked as he stood up at her level.

The two of them shared a chuckle between them. It wasn't much, but amidst the stagnant tension of indefinite waiting, it was enough.

"There's something... between us." James managed, still tripping over this unfamiliar awkwardness, "I don't know what it is, but I feel... better when you're here and, I really don't want to lose what I've found with–"

Vixy came close and placed her hands on his shoulders, cutting him short, and showed him possibly the sweetest smile he'd seen in weeks, months, maybe longer.

"Don't worry, you won't." she assured him.

Vixy then leaned forward, even closer than she already was, and placed a kiss on his cheek, letting it sink in for a second before she finally released it and backed away. There weren't any words here, none were needed. James was content to stand there dumbfounded in the wash of his own feelings, and Vixy was satisfied to have left him with such a strong yet wordless statement. And with nothing else, she turned and went her separate way out of the rotunda, while James watched, still caught in the capsule of momentary bliss...

"Yo! Jimmy!" a familiar voice called out.

That was Peppy hare, but he shouldn't have been here, he had no business on Farbound, not as far as was known anyway. But there he was nonetheless, jogging his way across the station's main rotunda toward James, passing Vixy on his way over. She gave the hare a curious look as he passed, but couldn't linger, and soon continued on her way.

"Peppy!" James exclaimed, knocked from his stupor, "What the hell are you doing all the way out here?"

"Why don't you tell me who your lady friend there is?" Peppy suggested, gesturing back the way she left, "You gonna be seeing more of her or what?"

James and Peppy became busy reacquainting themselves, Scott and Pigma didn't seem to give the two old friends much heed, and Vixy was already gone, but Rick and Rachelle smelled something amiss almost immediately.

It wasn't apparent, not to those who weren't looking for it, but the two raccoons became far more aware of their surroundings, scrutinizing every detail for abnormalities. There wasn't much to scour in Farbound's rotunda: the odd spacer here and there, a few of the station's employees. Then Rick spotted it.

"See those suits headed this way?" he said to Rachelle, "At your four and your ten?"

She checked those positions, and found two hulking figures in matching black suits, a pair of dark lensed glasses, and minuscule earpiece comms. "Bodyguards." Rachelle discerned.

Rick wasted not another moment, bolting up from his table and went straight for where Peppy and James were, while they still engaged in friendly greeting.  
>"Peppy, who did you come here with?"<p>

Rachelle want after him though, tried to get his attention, "Rick, wait–"

"He's with me..." a blunt voice replied.

The speaker was none other than Owen Phoenix, bearing an expression of such disgust, such pent-up an focused frustration, all of which he directed squarely at the Rick and Rachelle Cooney.  
>"What the <em>hell<em> have you done to my crew?" he demanded in bitter, accusing tone.

Everyone gathered was too speechless at the sudden arrival of Owen Phoenix to make an immediate reply. The fox simply stood there, glaring down the two somewhat surprised raccoons, until Rick got a grip and offered a reply.

"Honestly, Owen, I wish I knew."

"Don't give me your spooky spy bullshit, alright?" Phoenix spat back.

"We haven't heard from them in four days, not since we got here. We have no idea where they are or what's happened to them." Rachelle defended, standing up to the angered fox, "We're just as in-the-dark as _you_ are about them, so get off our case."

"Look, I _know_ where they are..." Owen Phoenix set out a sigh and scratched his head, wincing, uncomfortable, "If you'd like to know too, then you'd best tell me _exactly _what it was they were doing that got them there. It's a simple trade: you tell me what I want, and I'll tell you what you want. "

"Where did you learn this?" Rachelle asked, surprised at the revelation.

"If you know where Cerberus is, then why haven't you gone after them yourself?"

"Because beyond getting a special contract from you two stooges, I don't have foggiest clue clue what they've gotten themselves into, and I'd have no idea what to expect." Owen answered, only growing more irritated as the conversation tangled up, "So I ask again: what sort of _insanity_ did you send them on?"

"We were up against Harrow..." Scott said as he stepped forward, glaring Phoenix square in his eye.

"Scott?" the fox blurted out, not expecting him to be here, "What are you– I thought–"

"Now ye're gonna tell us what ye know, or so help me, I will punt your skinny wee executive arse out the nearest airlock, and all the way back tae Corneria! Out with it!"

The terrier had come right up against Owen, eyes aflame, like he'd actually make good on his threat if it came to that. The bodyguards who'd been keeping their distance seemed to reach that same conclusion, and closed in on the suddenly silent group. The commotion had also caught the attention of some of the bystanders within the rotunda, and their curious eyes were felt by all...

The two brutish bodyguards –a pair of larger felines as it turned out– positioned themselves behind Scott, ready to take action, but Owen waved them off. Before he did anything else, the stressed fox took a few deep breaths to steady himself, and finally turned back to the Cooneys.

"Is there... someplace private we can talk about this?"

"We've rented out one of the station's layover suites..." Rick answered, and began heading away, "This way."

The group made their way out of the central rotunda and into the station's corridors, following the Cooneys' lead. Rick and Rachelle spoke to each other in hushed whispers, occasionally glancing back to the small entourage following them, but didn't share their discussion with them. Scott and Pigma were closest behind, the terrier may have gone silent, but also became more restless and agitated, like a bomb on a hair-trigger fuse, which the young swine elected not to try and tamper with, lest it explode. Peppy was there also, not exactly sure what he should be doing, and just followed alongside Scott and Pigma. This left James McCloud and Owen Phoenix trailing in the rear, with only the two ever-alert bodyguards behind them. James didn't have the words for this interaction: as far as he knew 'Owen Phoenix' was a name at the top of Space Dynamics, and a face sometimes seen on the odd magazine cover, not someone to talk to. The older fox had no such qualms, and started conversation almost instantly.

"You must be the McCloud kid." he said, giving James a quick glance as they walked, "I know about you."

"Yeah?"

"You're fired."

"Excuse me?" James spurted, baffled by Owen's blunt statement.

"You're the sole surviving member of your squad, the rest of whom have been killed in what'll be Caius Company's biggest failure in recent history: the loss of the Amity." the older fox explained, "They're gonna hang that failure around your neck and give you the boot."

"We did our duty, and everyone made it of the Amity alright." McCloud still confused, "They can't fire me for that."

"Yes– Great– Fantastic– That's all well and good but, what of the ship? Its cargo? The management in these companies could care less about what actually happened out there. All they're going to be worried about right now is covering their sorry asses and minimizing their losses. If that means blaming you for something that didn't happen, and then chucking you off the wagon as a sacrificial lamb, so be it..."  
>Owen Phoenix spoke like he were explaining painfully obvious concepts to a child, which, for all of Jame's lack of business sense, might be valid comparison.<br>"Trust me, you're fired."

"I could quit, you know." James suggested, after some consideration.

"No... that'd look suspicious and they'll hound you for it..."  
>Owen glanced over to McCloud, and saw a clueless gape from the younger fox that said 'I still don't get it'.<br>"Just– let them fire you, walk away from this mess as clean as you can while your bosses scramble to scrape it off their chests. When it's all blown over and settled down, I may have a few job opportunities for you. Goodness knows you're gonna need'em."

Owen felt around for where he kept his business cards, and offered one to James, which he accepted without much thought given to it.

"I'll keep that in mind."

The group soon found themselves inside one of the larger apartments on Farbound. Like the rest of the station, it was built mainly for utilitarian purposes, offering comforts and amenities only just beyond what would normally be stuffed aboard a long-haul vessel. The most welcome of these comforts being space, allowing all ten of the group inside the apartment's main living space without feeling too cramped, even if Phoenix's bodyguards only had room to stand near the entryway.

Owen Phoenix stepped out from the group –above them, almost– and assumed his habitually trained position of 'chairman'.

"Cerberus sent a subspace transmission directly to Château de l'Étoiles, and _only _to Château de l'Étoiles as far as we know. In any case, the message was encoded using an encryption key we had at our disposal. It reads: _'I have traveled the river into oblivion, and lay anchored in the shadows of the foulest world.'..._"  
>The fox let that hang for a few moments, scanning the gathered occupants for their reactions.<br>"Does that phrase mean anything to anyone here?"

"You said you knew where they were..." Rick observed.

That drew a whole host of suspicious eyes from everyone else in the room, scrutinizing Owen...

"Yeah. I bluffed. I don't have a goddamn _clue _where they are." Owen confessed, "But how the hell else was I supposed to get your attention–" he stopped himself short, before he got himself worked up again, "I was hoping someone in this room might know something."

"I know what it means." Scott piped up almost immediately, still with some of that grim pent-up restlessness, "It's meant to inform us that Cerberus has undergone the Lethe procedure."

"And what exactly _is_ the Lethe procedure?" Owen asked.

"It's a ship-wide lockdown that disables all the ship's systems; computer mainframe, propulsion, avionics, primary power; the whole bloody lot of it, save for minimum emergency life-support." Scott explained, "The only it can be reversed without damaging the systems is with the proper encryption key."

"Which we got." Pigma added.

Owen nodded, understanding, but at the same time not understanding.  
>"Okay, so why the hell are you guys sending these cryptic messages to <em>me<em> of all people?" he asked.

"You're here, aren't you?" Rick snarked.

"Hurr hurr, very funny." Owen -ed, rolling his eyes.

"Well, it makes sense if think about it." Rachelle extrapolated, "The crew didn't really have a way to contact us here on the station, not without going through Farbound's transceiver traffic and risking someone eavesdropping."

"We know that little fortified floating penthouse of yours is secure, and we know how tenacious you are." Scott finished.

"Fine– Whatever–" Owen waved the issue away, and moved on to something else, "Do we know where we're going then?"

"Venom, of course." Pigma answered quickly.

"Venom?"

"The message is a sort of riddle, you see..." the young swine explained, "The 'river into oblivion' refers to the river Lethe, which runs through the netherworld of some ancient myth. Anyone who swims in that river is supposed to lose all memory, to forget everything they've ever known, a state of _oblivion–_"

"Right, I get it, the total lockout." Owen conjectured, "And the 'shadows of the foulest word'? I guess Venom fits into that, nasty place, but how will you know exactly where to find Cerberus? Is there a certain place on the planet or something you're using as a kind of base? A safehouse?"

"Nah, we're not _that_ crazy prepared." Pigma said, shaking his head, "The 'shadow' in the message is literally the shadow cast by the planet Venom, in its second Lagrange point. It's a point where gravity can lock a satellite, like lifeless Cerberus for instance, into a fixed position relative to Venom and the Sun which incidentally keeps it in constant darkness. The ship's not going anywhere anytime soon, and finding it will be easy enough."

Owen Phoenix paced around the room for a few moments as he cycled through his thoughts. He came to a stop somewhere near the center, and turned to face the Cooney twins, "Richard, Rachelle, and gathered company, I think you all might have a certain operation to discuss..." he then headed to the apartment's exit, while everyone else was left more-or-less speechless, "You're welcome, by the way."

With that he gestured for his bodyguards to follow, and exited the apartment of Farbound station.

/

* * *

><p><em>Entrepreneurs are simply those who understand that there is little difference between obstacle and opportunity and are able to turn both to their advantage.<em>

-Niccolo Machiavelli-


	9. Fear, Uncertainty, and Doubt

Author Note:

Hi guys/gals and welcome back. Did that 24 hour hiccup freak you out as much as it did me? I mean, I had _just_ finished writing this chapter last night when I tried to upload it, only to have the "cannot connect to server" error page come up, right out of the blue. But anyways, the hiccup is over now, and you can sit back and enjoy this latest chapter.

If you have anything to say, go for it. I love hearing back from y'all, so don't shy yourself out.

/

* * *

><p>

The agents of Central Intelligence were always peculiar clients.

They paid well, and the most they ask in return, other than the services for which they paid, is discretion. It's very dull most times, when they just need you for redundancy purposes, but on those rare occasions when it wasn't, it was always fascinating, and often frightening as well.

This was one of those times, and Captain Otto Jäeger wasn't entirely sure what to make of it.

The agent, Cooney, had the privateer vessel Schwarzwind layover at Farbound station for some time, prepared to depart at a moment's notice. He wouldn't say what for, just that "If we need you, we'll let you know." As it came to pass, he let Otto know, and the agent had a curious collection of tag-alongs with him. They were anxious, restless, some may even say 'shellshocked', but not Otto. The odd group was dominated by a relentless driving intent, and a suppressed sense of dread they tried so very hard not to acknowledge. Perhaps they wouldn't say outright what their purposes were, but it doesn't take a genius to conjecture a plausible scenario.

There'd been talk of the escalation of pirate raids, with the Sojourn gone missing, and now the Amity –the surviving refugees were nothing if not vocal. Something out there went wrong with a mission, horribly wrong; that much was evident in these ragtag men. And so the agent called upon privateer Captian Otto Jäeger and Schwarzwind to help set it right, or at least pick up the broken pieces.

Whatever the case, the agent and his restless cohorts gave Jäeger a set of coordinates to take them to: Venom. Specifically, it was an area of gravitationally stability a short ways beyond the orbit of Venom, its outer Lagrange point. When asked what he expected to find there, Cooney simply answered, "I don't know, but be prepared for the worst."

So prepared for the worst he did.

Schwarzwind exited the warp jump at complete combat readiness; shields up, weapons primed, crew at battle-stations, Captain on the bridge.

"Situation?" Jäeger prompted to one of his bridge crew. The Captain was a slick-furred otter, dressed in a maritime-style overcoat.

The view outside Schwarzwind's bridge viewport offered little. Venom's outer Lagrange point landed itself at the exact point where the planet eclipsed the sun. There was no sunlight, no other light at all besides the fickle glimmer of distant stars, and the eerie white glow creeping around the darkened planet Venom, courtesy of the location's eternal eclipse.

He didn't like it.

"There's nothing here." the crewman at the sensory station informed, "I'm not picking up any signal transmissions, heat emissions or..." he stopped, and puzzled over his instruments.

"What is it?" Jäeger questioned.

"Something metallic, with a scan profile of a small to medium sized ship." the crewman answered, "It's cold, but seems intact enough –no debris or signs of gaseous discharges."

It stank of trouble, and it was the sort he'd come to expect from Intelligence. No doubt that's what Cooney was after out here.

"Bring us closer, and see if we can get some light on the damned thing."

"Of course–"

"Keep on alert though." Jäeger reminded, "I've seen this tactic used before as an ambush."

As per the Captain's orders, Schwarzwind made the approach on the drifting object, still at full battle-readiness. Aside from the thrum of thrusters, there was little change outside, nothing visual to suggest a sense of movement. Even when the ship's searchlights were activated, there was no change. With nothing for the light to strike and bounce off, it makes shining even the most brilliant light into the darkness seem hopelessly futile.

Then it happened.

A gray shape emerged in the distance, advancing upon the Schwarzwind while it remained completely still. Captain Jäeger squinted at the expanding shape, then his eyes shot wide open when he realized–

"Gods alive..." he exclaimed on a ghostly breath, "I _know_ that ship."

It was the mercenary vessel Cerberus.

/

* * *

><p><strong>恐怖、不確実性、疑<strong>**_  
>Fear, Uncertainty, and Doubt<em>**

* * *

><p>

The Cooneys, Scott Aberdeen, Pigma Dengar, James McCloud and Peppy Hare had gathered outside the Schwarzwind's primary airlock, along with Captian Otto Jäeger and a few crewmen. Some of them were openly armed; James, Scott and Peppy most obviously. Pigma and Rachele toted some bulkier equipment with them, including a portable power supply, interface override, and other assorted mechanical and electrical tools. Rick however carried only a cold, stoic demeanor –thinking, calculating, considering, and silently worrying.

Captian Jäeger was off to the side, talking quietly with some of his crew, a few of which were at the airlock terminal. A few moments later, after a brief exchange with the crew, the Captain turned away to the gathered party, "The docking umbilical is secured and pressurized, you may proceed aboard Cerberus." Jäeger told them, "I can send more in with you if–"

"That won't be necessary," Rick interrupted, then saw a small group of Jäeger's crew, armed and prepped for combat, looking a little disappointed now. "But, have them guard this entrance – nobody comes through here that isn't us without our say-so. Keep your medic on standby too, we may need their help."

"Certainly."

The Captain gestured his eager crewmen toward the airlock entrance, where they took up positions. Once they were there, Jäeger gave a curt nod to the one at the terminal, and the airlock's heavy door split open with a hiss of pneumatic pistons and a metallic grunt of sliding metal. He turned once more to the restless party, and beckoned them into the airlock.

When all six had entered the decompression chamber, the door closed behind them with a solid clank as the locking mechanisms sealed the airlock.

"Give my regards to Captain Aries when you find him." Jäeger's voice called out over the speakers inside the chamber, "Viel Glück."

The airlock's outer door parted open, into the long snaking docking umbilical stretched out between the Schwarzwind and Cerberus, and the party proceeded forward. The passage was narrow, only wide enough for two people to stand side-by-side, and it wasn't a straight shot. It snaked gently up, making a slight turn between its two ends, yet at no point did it feel like they were walking uphill or down. Grav-pads in the floor kept their feet on the ground, but they were inconsistent; at some points it felt light, and others pulled down hard. The fact that the only thing separating the tube from the vacuum of space was a couple airtight layers of laminated fabric didn't help the uneasiness. Yet as unsettling as the crossing was, the docking umbilical was the only practical way to board Cerberus while it remained dormant, with its hangar bay sealed.

The party soon reached Cerberus's main airlock on the other end. Pigma and Rachelle were up front with the equipment needed to activate the airlock's manual override. With no power from inside the ship to work the heavy outer door's mechanisms, the only way to get it open was with an external power source.

In a few minutes' time, Cerberus's outer airlock door grumbled open into its decompression chamber – very similar to the one they exited from on the other end.

Nobody had spoken the entire time. They knew what needed to be done, knew the risks, and need not bother voicing concerns or asking questions. Anything that could've been asked would already have an answer, and anything that didn't would find its answer aboard Cerberus. But now the verbal silence was broken when Scott activated his headset, and uttered a anxious phrase into the microphone.

"This be Scott."

There was no response from the headset's speaker – nothing other than the faint hiss and crackle of background noise.

"Are you blokes there?"

"No good, man." Pigma said, looking up from his work at the inner airlock door, "The shipboard comm transceiver is gonna be down. They can't hear a damn thing, and neither can we."

Scott shook his head, scolding himself for being stupid, "Aye, right, I knew that."

The outer door of the airlock's decompression chamber grumbled shut behind the party, sealing them inside for the moment

"Once we're inside, we go to the mainframe. That's where Adrian's gonna be with his part of the key, and we can bring the ship back online... Yeah."  
>Pigma tried to sound optimistic, but it came out forced.<p>

That's why nobody wanted to speak, nobody wanted to listen. Despite harboring a quiet hope for the best, they fully expected the worst. Talking about it only made everyone feel uncomfortable, made those hopes seem even more futile, and the worst that much more daunting. The awkward silences were wordlessly decided to be the least of the evils, and so they kept to themselves all but what was needed.

After a few more moments of Pigma and Rachelle's tinkering, the airlock's inner door ground open, into Cerberus's corridors.

The first thing that jumped out was the darkness. Emergency lighting was limited only to faintly glowing strips, outlining the edges of the corridor. It was enough to navigate the ship by, but not enough to clearly illuminate anything inside.

The next thing noticed was the air, how everyone's breath emerged from their lips in a quickly fading cloud of condensation. It was cold, so very cold, a stale chill that threatened to smother the life out of anyone who breathed it. Whether this was due to sheer coldness, or subnormal oxygen levels, or some combination – it was probably both.

Rick was the first to step into the darkness, looking up and down the black corridor, and then turned back to the party.  
>"Jim, Scott, you two take point." he directed, "Peppy, take the rear, make sure we're not followed.<p>

/

* * *

><p>

Cold.

Wasn't always cold. Became cold, slowing down, cooling down. Now, not even cold anymore, just is.

How long? Easy enough to judge time, days and nights, measurable cycles, but not here, not in the veil, a shadow that never lifted. Barely even remember when it wasn't this, fading distant memory. It happened. Couldn't fight it. Can't fight it now – gone. Can't recall. Can't think. Nothing to think about. Tried. Failed.

One question then, just one.

Was it worth it?

. . .

Wait.

Somewhere here – far, but still here. A noise. A sound. At last.

The frozen icy silence – finally broken.

Someone's there. Someone made it. Someone came. But who?

Threat?

. . .

Yes. Threat.

Have to move, get up, can't stay here anymore.

Legs, arms, slow – tired. Eyes can't see – too dark.

Need weapon.

Get up.

Fight.

_Survive._

/

* * *

><p>

It didn't make any sense.

Why the hell did they bolt out? Why did they shut the damn ship down? What could have possibly spooked them so bad that they'd activated the Lethe procedure? It was one bloody bloke, just one, even if he _was_ Cerinian. And also, who was this Peppy chump? And what was he doing with Phoenix?

These were the thoughts that occupied Scott's restless mind as he led the party through Cerberus's darkened corridors, with only flashlight beams to light their way. He knew the way to Cerberus's computer mainframe, and was the most experience fighter in the group, making him the one best prepared to lead them through, no matter what threat waited for them. Rick seemed to think otherwise though, and pinned James McCloud with him.

There was no way Cooney would have trusted Scott to lead the way all my himself, not while he's so 'distressed' by the current situation. Like hell he was distressed! He was bloody angry and ready to act! He didn't need some cocksure greenhorn to babysit him and watch his back. He could handle himself just fine thank you very much. For that matter, this greenhorn was the one who nearly got himself killed doing something stupid, and _Scott_ was the one who saved _his_ arse!

Someone placed a hand on the terrier's shoulder.

"Scott–"

"What?" he shot back.

It came out angry, angrier than he meant, and realized his face had pinched into a snarling grimace. That was James by the voice. He couldn't see anything but his faint silhouette in this blasted dark, but it was easy enough to imagine the concerned look on his smug fox mug he must've given Scott at that moment.

He shook his head, grumbling to himself as he tried to loosen up, and looked up again.  
>"Just, what is it?"<p>

"Look at this..."

Jame's flashlight beam, attached to his assault rifle's rail mount, panned along and illuminated the walls in this area. Scott knew this corridor, the mainframe was just a little ways further along. The walls here were never in spectacular shape to begin with, but he did notice several new dents, blaster scorch marks, and some broken fixtures. Given closer inspection, there even appeared to be a few fine drips of red here and there.

There's been fighting here.

Somebody behind Scott sniffed the air, and asked, "Can you smell that?" It was Rick.

Truth was, it was damn near impossible to smell _anything_ in the chilly stale air. However, now that Rick had mentioned it, there did seem to be a subtle hint of foulness, lingering, festering.

"No..."

Scott had frozen in place. His handgun drooped down in one hand, and the flashlight trembled in his other, shining at something further down. He tarted moving forward, slowly, dragging each sluggish foot forward.

There was Malcolm Aries, slumped down with his back against the wall, eyes wide open and fuming with rage, but motionless. His throat had a ragged hole pierced through it, and from there a series rough dark streaks ran down his broad chest, all the way down to pool spread out on the metal floor panels: blood.

"Malcolm ye stupid, stubborn, daft old _bastard!_" Scott spat at the corpse's face, "What were ye doing? What were ye thinking? What forsaken _madness_ drove ye out here?"

"Scott–"

"And what have ye got tae show for it now, eh?" Scott demanded from the dead ram, "_What have ye bloody got?_"

"_Scott!_"

"_Piss off!_"

* _Crack!_ *

He whipped around and smashed the flashlight across Rick's face, making him reel away from the sudden blow clutching his battered muzzle. Scott stood there, panting, his breath heaving in and out, but irregular, either from enraged sobs or shivering from the cold. He didn't seem to care one way or the other, so lost in his fit of raging grief.

"Stay with us, Scott." Rachelle stepped forward, easing past her injured brother to confront Scott, "I know you're angry –we all are– but you have to keep you head, focus. There's nothing you can do for him anymore, and we–"

_* Blam! *_

"Augh– God– Dammit!"

A blaster shot ripped out from the darkness and struck Pigma, who staggered off clutching his side.

"Everybody down!" James ordered, taking control as he snapped into action mode.

He shoved up against the nearest wall, taking as much cover as he could, and sent his flashlight beam down the corridor to try and get a glimpse to who fired. There was a person-like shape, with an arm stretched straight out toward James–

_* Blam! *_

He barely ducked away before the shot was fired.

"Peppy!" James called out across the call, where the hare's silhouette took up a similar combat stance, "Load up with an EM charge and give us some covering fire!"

"You got it Jimmy!" he replied, and carried out the instructions.

"No, Scott! Wait!" Rachelle called out.

"Rraaaagh!"  
>Scott charged forward, faced contorted in a burning vengeful snarl, and he leapt spinning into the air. In another moment he flashed forward into darkness in a streak of pale blue, leaving the rest of the party behind.<p>

_* Blam! *_

The hostile blaster shot didn't make it to the rest of the party, only a brief red glow down the corridor indicated where the shot landed. The ringing blaster shot was followed almost instantly by a solid _thunk,_ the clatter of a weapon falling against the floor, and a flop of a body falling limp to the ground. There were more thumps after that, weaker ones, but one after another, again and again, each strike ringing and echoing through the cold metal corridors.

James and Peppy advanced forward toward the scene ahead, weary, and not sure what they'd see. In a few moments they found Scott hunched over the fallen figure, hammering his clenched fist into the other, again and again. There seemed to be a slick liquid glazed over Scott's knuckles, hard to see on his black fur, blood maybe? Then a limp arm fell to one side and into Jame's view: one with ghostly white fur, and spattered with dark red flecks.

James knew who this was; he didn't need to see his face, but he looked over Scott's shoulder anyway. The nameless wolf's face was a bloody, battered mess. Streaks of blood ran out his nose, and mouth, and a few wicked cuts at other places. One of his eyes was almost completely obscured by a puffed up bruise, showing nearly black under his pale fur.

James McCloud didn't do anything to stop it. The murdering coward deserved this treatment as far as he was concerned, and if it got some of that pent-up rage out of Scott's system in the process, all the better. Let the heartless bastard suffer a bit.

Peppy however had other ideas, and grabbed hold of Scott's blood-smeared fist before he could swing another blow.  
>"Hey. Easy there, he's had enough."<p>

Scott glared back with burning eyes, wordlessly warning him that if he didn't let go, the next blow just might land in _his _face instead. Peppy didn't even flinch at it, gifted with a certain calmness that everybody else at the moment was desperately lacking. It might've been because he hadn't endured the recent hardships, or he simply was that cool under pressure, or both, it didn't matter that much.

In any case, that moment saw Scott ease down from boiling rage to simmering contempt, and that was enough to stay his bloodied hand. He stood up without a word, and stepped away from the scene, wringing his sore hand.

The helpless wolf moaned, or grunted, or coughed; something like that. Even after the onslaught, he was still conscious, but in a sluggish glazed-over stupor. Peppy bent down and checked his vitals; there's no way James would've done it, and Peppy was more on top of these practical things for the time being.

"He feels cold, his heat rate is way down, and irregular." he said with growing concern, "Forget the face-mash, this guy's about to kick it just from being to damn cold."  
>Peppy removed the jacket he'd been wearing, and draped it over the wolf to try and give him at least a little warmth.<p>

Rick, Rachelle and Pigma joined the rest of the party there a few moments later. Dengar had a blaster burn on his shoulder, which he still clung, but otherwise seemed alright. Rick bore a ragged cut on the side of his muzzle where Scott's flashlight struck him, but didn't allow it to stop him, and opened a channel on his comm after looking over the situation.

"Otto, send in your medic," Rick said into his earpiece, "we have wounded down here in need of immediate attention."

"Right away." Captain Jäeger's static-cracked voice replied, and cut out as he issued orders on his end.

"So, what do we do now?" Pigma asked, his words blank and vacant.

"Exactly what we were doing before: go to the mainframe, and reactivate the ship's systems." Rick answered, then knelt down next to the barely conscious wolf. "You all go on ahead. I'll stay here and see this poor bastard off."

"Hold on, we agreed that nobody walks the ship alone." Rachelle objected, "At least, not until we've done a full search or have the security feeds online."

"I'll be fine. I'm not walking the ship, nor am I alone." Rick assured her, "I'm just going to stay right here until the Schwarzwind's medical detail arrives."

"Alright." Rachelle said with a small sigh, knowing the argument wasn't worth it, "Just don't do anything stupid."  
>She and the rest of the party started back toward Cerberus's mainframe, leaving Rick alone with the catatonic wolf.<p>

As they left, Rick scooped up the handgun from the floor nearby, the weapon that only a few minutes ago was spouting deadly fire, if erratic, and it was still warm to the touch. It was a wonder the battered wolf could shoot straight at all, or even walk, given his nearly frozen condition. Hypothermia could induce confusion and delirium in the victim, which might explain how he was driven to fight against impossible odds, but it didn't explain _why._ Already Rick was preparing questions to ask for when the nameless wolf was in a better condition to answer. Why, when the first chance of rescue arrived, was his first instinct to fight? What could he have seen or endured that spooked him to such ends?

"What the hell happened here?" Rick then asked quietly to himself.

The wolf muttered something – a response? It was too garbbled and muddled to know for sure.

"What?" Rick questioned, looking over to him.

The wolf looked back at Cooney with a ghostly blank, thousand-yard stare, and worked with what effort he could to form the words, "H... _Hell_... Happened."

/

* * *

><p>

The door to Cerberus's mainframe cracked open, forced apart by the effort of manual override.

Flashlight beams danced through the room, scanning through the banks of silent machines for any sign of trouble. The same chilled foulness that was outside was present again in the mainframe. Nobody wanted to believe, but had every reason to expect, that Adrian or, someone at least, had suffered a similar fate as Malcom.

Finding no immediate trouble, Rachelle Scott and Pigma entered the mianframe and began their search, while James and Peppy remained outside to cover the entrance. They carried on silent once again, laser-focused on the task at hand, all except for one anyway.

"Adrian!" Pigma called out as he combed through the mainframe's server towers, trying to hold on to what little shred of optimism was left, "You in here, man?"

No response; nothing but the others' footsteps and occasional rustling or clatter they made. Occasionally some members of the party stepped on the tiny pellets of shotgun shot, or found a spent shell or two. Some of the towers had chucks blown out by a likely a shotgun blast, while others still were scorched, warped, or melted. The mainframe wasn't a very large space, and a complete search wouldn't last long. Sure enough, Pigma soon turned around one last tower, and that's where he found him.

Adrian's thin wiry frame lay sprawled face-down between two rows of server towers, and his weapon of choice shotgun was down at his side. Dead. There wasn't any shock, or outrage, or despair; not this time, but that didn't make it easy.

After a few moments of speechlessness, Pigma mustered the will to call out, "I found him..."

While the others made their way there, Pigma went down to Adrian's body and went to work. His face was damn near unrecognizable: just a mess of burnt skin, charred tissue and crumbling bone with a beak sticking out from it, preserved in these near-freezing conditions. Pigma tried not to look at him, and just focused on removing Adrian's miniature wrist-computer, which didn't look to be in much better condition. It was scorched and warped in some places, the display screen cracked, but only a closer examination would confirm if there was anything to salvage from it.

"I'm sorry." Rachelle said quietly from over his shoulder.

"After Malcom, I kinda expected this..." Pigma stated in a bleak monotone, "Even if we found Adrian... like he is... I was hoping maybe we could extract the Lethe encryption key from this." he held out Adrian's mangled wrist-computer to Rachelle.

She took the device and gave it a quick look-over. One of the worst damaged sections of the wrist-computer was right where its solid-state drives were housed.

"This doesn't look," she mentioned, showing the damage to Pigma.

"So, ye've gotten tae Ardy too didn'tye?" Scott growled hoarsely as he looked over the scene, his blazing anger honed to a sharp, jagged edge, "I don't know where ye'are, _Harrow,_ but ye'd best hope not tae find yer'self within striking distance of me."

/

* * *

><p>

The first thing he felt was the all too familiar tug of those restraining straps around his wrists and ankles. He was here again, in the merc ships' medical bay, where they were no doubt going to prepare yet another procedure to try and make him talk. Go on, pump this mind and body full of yet _more _brain-scrambling chemicals. It's endured _far_ worse than anything you could possibly inject. Try it, I dare you.

_Coward. _

I'll take coward over idiot any day.

Wait, something wasn't lining up.

He knew by the feel of it where he was, but vision was still a little blurry, and the ears were still ringing-out all other sounds. There was light, bit it was darker than he remembered it was supposed to be; colder too, come to think of it.

Something happened, something freaking nuts–

_There is nowhere you can run where you can escape_

Try me.

He remembered, but he couldn't. That damned headache!

"Good, you're awake."

He heard that voice before, not long before. The hearing must've been clearing up; that guy sounded real enough. The vision was coming back too, and he wasn't entirely imagining things. This _was_ the med bay, and he was laying on one of the beds, but there weren't any restraints. Even so, the arms and legs still couldn't move, and still felt like they were being held down–

"The sedatives are still working their way out of your system, and the feeling should come back to your arms and legs in a few minutes." the voice said again. "Until then, try not to move. You'll only hurt yourself."

That's when he saw the IV tubes sticking into him; one in the arm, and another that probably went in the side of the neck, all connected up with fluid filled bags and some bleeping piece of medical machinery. None of the equipment in the room was connected to the ship's power sources, but to a portable power supply instead.

That's when the voice's owner came alongside him; a raccoon. He remembered seeing this guy, before he passed out. The raccoon asked something, and he replied with something else. Some of the memories were coming back too, and that scrappy little terrier.

"Who are you?" the pale wolf asked. He felt his bruised and battered face strain and ache as he spoke.

"I'd ask you the same..."

The raccoon sat down on a neighboring bed, and waited, just waited. After a few dull moments of nothing, he shrugged and gave a sigh, "Look, if you don't give me a name, I'm gonna have to make one up for you."

Rick just sat there, swapping silence in the med bay with the wolf for a while, but there was something... _off_ about him. Rick had seen his fair share of mercenaries, assassins, pirates, smugglers, black-market enforcers, desperate lowlifes and other such. This guy though, whoever he was, and had a story to tell, yet was reluctant to tell it–

"Hey."

The sudden blast of Rachelle's voice in his earpiece comm startled Rick, and he flinched a bit from it before giving his reply a few moments later.

"Yeah?" he asked, walking away from the wolf for now.

"We just finished searching the ship. There's no sign of Harrow or Chakori aboard, no bodies or–"

"Our shuttle's _gone!_" Scott butted in, his tone bordering on frantic, "I'm sure beyond all doubt that's where they went, jumping the ship. It's not over– not yet, we can track the shuttle's location using its tracking beacon."

"But not until we reactivate the ship." Pigma's blank voice reminded Scott, "The beacon only transmits here, to the ship, which has the necessary decoders stored away. We _could_ track the shuttle from other locations, but still we'd need the beacon's decryption codes, which are stored in Cerberus's mainframe–"

"We get it! We need tae reactivate the ship."

"Which we can't do without–"

"_More_ bloody codes!" Scott snapped back, "I _know,_ Pigma! I've been workin' this rusty tub longer than–"

"Cool your jets, Scott. He's only trying to help." Rick said, trying to calm him down, "Can Cerberus's mainframe be hacked?"

"With several months of free time and near infinite patience? Maybe." Rachelle answered with a healthy dose of snark, "Adrian got the ship's systems locked tighter than a miser's wallet, but I'm guessing we're going for a more immediate solution, am I right?"

"Well, I could try to reconstruct the codes from Adrian's wrist-piece," Pigma suggested, not sounding too stellar about the prospects, "but the memory on it is, uh... kinda crispy. We'd be lucky enough to even get the OS loaded up on the thing, let alone extracting vital data."

"This just gets better and better." Rick grumbled.

Everything about this crap-sack mess of an op depended on getting the damned ship's mainframe back online. The decryption codes for the missing shuttle's tracking beacon, the feeds for the smart-bug planted aboard the Amity, anything recorded by Cerberus's crew before the shutdown– it was scrambled inside dozens of onion-layer encryptions. The whole thing was a tightly corked digital bottle, not worth breaking to get open, and without a single corkscrew in sight.

Fuck.

Rick had wandered around the med bay, pacing, furrowing his brow, and found himself next to the pale wolf once again.

"So..." he sounded more coherent now when he spoke; not slurred or jumbled as it was before, "You were gonna make up for me?"

He still regarded Cooney with that same look of arrogant contempt, even if it was through a bruised and battered face. Like it or not though, he was the only source of information available, and that made him an invaluable asset that couldn't afford to be alienated.

"I'll go with 'Wiley'." Rick finally decided, "Hell only knows you had to be wily to survive whatever happened here."

"Hm, good as any other." the wolf said, not really caring.

His fingers were flexing some, and his arms started to twitch. His sedatives were wearing off, and it wouldn't be long until he was up and about.

"So that's it then?" Peppy asked over the comm channel, "We're went through all this creepy crap for nothing?"

"Wait, I..." Scott said, arriving at an uncomfortable conclusion, "I know where we can get another set of the ship's codes."

Some hope at last, fleeting as it was.

/

* * *

><p><em>Power does not corrupt. Fear corrupts... perhaps the fear of a loss of power.<em>

-John Steinbeck-


	10. A Small Matter of Pride

Author Note:

Apparently, _Star Fox: Legacy_ has made the short list of tvtrope's recommended Star Fox fanfics. Um... wow... Thanks tropers!

Anyways. This chapter is a little longer than some of the others, but it's full-to-bursting with intrigue, drama, a bit of snark, and a whole bunch of other good stuff we all love, so maybe that'll make up for the slightly longer length. Hope you enjoy it!

\

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><p>

-Some years earlier-

Adrian Crane was alone in Cerberus's computer mainframe, sitting hunched over the main terminal, with a small table pulled up alongside it. A brand new wrist-computer was there on the table. He was busy, coding and programing a comprehensive wireless interface between Cerberus –with all its automated features– and the wrist computer. Essentially, he was making a remote control, which could come in very handy for a ship like this.

Without any warning, the lights went dark, and all the little noises of machinery and equipment ceased, plunging the mainframe into black silence.

Once he'd gotten over the initial shock, Adrian scrambled into troubleshooting the systems, producing a small flashlight from one of his many pockets as he went to work. There was no response from the mainframe's interfaces, not even the power switches were doing anything –could've been a blown failsafe. No. even if there was ship-wide a power failure, the mainframe had a built-in backup power supply which should've allowed some functions to continue, if only for a limited period.

This was different. Something happened, something far beyond a simple failure.

"I'm not here to kill you." a calm voice said from the darkness. "I just want to talk."

Adrian snapped the beam of his flashlight at the speaker, and found Serge Noire, standing right there in his favored knee-length coat, calm and casual as his flinty cold ways would let him be.

There was a flash of combat instincts at that moment that screamed to Adrian, "Get a weapon! Fight back! Take control!" but the analytical part thought better of it, and the curious part wanted to know what this was all about. And besides, Serge wasn't the blathering gloating type. If he wanted him dead, he was well within is ability to have done so already.

"This; it was you, wasn't it?" Adrian mused, giving a sweeping gesture all around him, "What did you do?"

"I activated the Lethe procedure."

"Which is..."

Serge paused a few moments, giving no visual indications other than looking slightly away from Adrian for a bit. Then he looked back when he began, "In the ancient myths, Lethe was the name of a river, one of five that flow though the underworld where the spirits of the dead go. The other four rivers are: Styx, the river of hate, Acheron, the river of pain, Cocytus, the river of anguish, and Phlegethon, the river of fire. These other four are unstable concepts, unpredictable, uncontrollable. No, I prefer Lethe. In its original language, Lethe means 'oblivion', 'forgetfulness' or 'concealment'. Those who drank from this river would experience a state of utter forgetfulness, a complete amnesia."

"That's uh... cute and poetic and all, but it doesn't tell me anything." Adrian said, still confused, "What exactly did this Lethe thing _do_ to the ship?"

"Cerberus has 'forgotten' how to function." Serge explained, "Main power is offline, propulsion and weapon systems are inoperable, the computer is locked out, communications smothered, and all of the automated features have been shut down. The ship has been rendered useless."

"So what's the point of all this? What do you want?"

"This is Cerberus's final line of defense." Serge said, cutting into Adrian with a cold flinty glare.

Serge waited, looking for Adrian's reaction. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, but kept his composure, waiting in-turn for Serge's next move. The avian technician's cool-headed response satisfied Serge, and he gave him a curt nod.

"If you are ever overrun, and the ship is about to fall into the hands of your enemy, give Cerberus a drink from the river Lethe: deprive your captors of her use, and turn the tables on them. They will not be able to track your movements, relocate the ship to someplace safe, nor send a message to call for help, not while the ship is a lifeless drifting husk. Then, in this cold dark of oblivion; with the hearts your enemies full of fear, uncertainty, and doubt; strike from the shadows, and pick them off one by one until you emerge the victor.

"_That,_ is the true power of Lethe: to forget, to conceal, and in doing so: obliterate..." Serge reached inside his coat, under his left shoulder, where a handgun would be concealed. When his hand reemerged, there was no weapon; just a memory card, which he presented to Adrian. "This is the encryption key that will reverse the Lethe procedure. It decodes the computer's multi-layered lockout encryptions, and activates Cerberus's flash startup protocols, putting the ship back at full operating status in under a minute. Use it: plug it into the mainframe."

"Why are you doing this?" Adrian asked as he accepted the memory card, still very much curious or confused.

He did as Serge instructed, and inserted the small, plain-seeming card into the corresponding slot on the mainframe terminal. All at once, the ship began to awaken from its sudden slumber. The whir and hum of the computer mainframe components were accompanied by the much lower and more pervasive groan of the reactor core as it started up once again. A wash of light also flooded the room, both from the overhead fixtures and the consoles' readout displays.

"I too would like to 'forget'." Serge finally answered.

With the ship returning to life all around them, Serge turned and headed out of the mainframe.

"Take care of the ship, Adrian."

\

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><p>

-Many years after that-

In short, it was a typical enough fine dining restaurant.

The design was fairly straightforward. All the furniture, artwork, and fixtures in the dining area followed a theme of 'elegant semi-modern', where everything followed clean lines and a subdued color schemes, with only tasteful deviations, and nothing that would be rightly considered outrageous or garish. The guests attending mostly followed this trend in the way they dressed, with the ladies in a wide variety of their evening best, and the gentlemen in variations of the classic suit-and-tie combo. The wait staff cycled through the dining area, carrying out their duties with the same iron discipline as soldiers on patrol.

The myriad of succulent scents from the food, and the crisp tartness of the drinks mingled in the air with perfumes and colognes from the guests. Their quiet conversations accompanied by a backdrop of gentle music, and only a hint of the busy kitchen clamor.

Then something changed.

"Everybody be cool!" an angry voice bellowed, "This is a robbery!"

One of the guests – a bright red hook-beaked avian – leapt onto the table he was sitting at, and brandished a handgun down toward the surrounding guests. A similarly colored lady avian in a cocktail dress who was sharing his table produced a handgun from her purse, and likewise held it at the ready as she hollered at nearby guests and wait-staff.

"Anybody moves so much as a _muscle _without our say-so, and we'll execute every last one of you!"

The gun-toting couple swept across the dining area, shouting and intimidating everyone as they went, sending a sudden wave of panic into the guests which spread through the entire restaurant like wildfire. Anyone who attempted to act were immediately beset by one of the couple, shocked into submission by the muzzle of a blaster handgun and the yelled threat of its imminent discharge.

"YOU!" The scarlet lady avian had pounced on one of the guests who'd tried to move, and bore down on her target with a relentless fury, holding the weapon steady at the victim's face. "Get down on the ground, on the floor! Stay there–!"

* _Shk!_ *

She dropped her blaster.

The lady avian just stood there, speechless, quivering, eyes wide, and breath coming in rapid shallow gasps. The only people who seemed any more shocked than she did at the moment: the guests she had only moments ago threatened.

"Something wrong, honey?" her companion asked, as he came toward her, glancing around with an uneasy combination of concern and suspicion, "You got any problems here?"

When he arrived, he laid a hand on her trembling bare shoulder. She cringed at the touch, and turned herself around. The lady avian's expression was one of pain, and shock, and she clutched her hand.

Her empty hand had been skewered by a serrated steak-knife, the red-smeared blade sprouting from her palm, leaking a thin trickle of blood.

Upon seeing this, he went into a rage down and yanked up one of the cowering guests by the shirt.

"You!" he snapped, "Tell me who threw the knife, now!"

"I– I– I don't know!" the other stammered, "I didn't see!"

"Well who the hell _did!_" he demanded as he threw the guest back down, "Do _any_ of you fat, ritzy, gluttons have working eyeballs in your thick heads!"

The scarlet avian scanned through the nearby guests. They were all terrified, or confused, or both, but none of them answered. More disconcerting still was when some of the wait-staff leered back at him, angry, confident, scoffing? Mocking?

"Okay hero, so that's the way you're gonna play..."  
>He brought his handgun up, and mustered another wave of<br>"If you don't come out at the count of three, I start plugging the diners!"

A few fearful gasps sprung up among the guests, but only a few. More of the guests glanced around in anxiety, aware that something had gone wrong. The staff continued to stare down the would-be robber, silently menacing him with their confidence.

"One..."

He picked out one of the guests to be his hostage, and brought his weapon to bear. He tried so very hard to keep his hand from trembling, to stay intimidating, to save face.

"Two..."

The others could sense his fear, he knew it. He felt his heart bumping, and fought to keep his breath under control. He didn't want to kill, not if he didn't need to, but it looked to be a situation where it's him or them.

"Where _are_ you?" he whispered, but not to anybody in particular.

"Right behind you." answered a cold flinty voice.

The scarlet avian whipped around to face the voice.

His gun arm was swiftly knocked up and away as he spun, forcing the weapon to discharge into the ceiling. Then a strike speared into his throat in the same instant. He staggered from the blow, gasping through his swelling windpipe, and a firm hand pried his handgun away. Before there was a chance to get a good look at his attacker, much less act, the avian found his feet had been swept out from under him, and he landed on his back with a dull _thud. _

Only then did he get a clear look at his attacker: a sharply dressed, slick-furred canid, holding the blaster handgun squarely toward the hapless avian's face. He didn't even look down at the would-be robber, he just looked over to somewhere else, with a gaze that could freeze fire.

"Get this _filth_ out of my restaurant." Serge Noire ordered.

\

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><p><strong>軽い誇りの事項<strong>_**  
>A Small Matter of Pride<strong>_

* * *

><p>

Scoff if you like, but I promise there are few places more rigorous, more demanding, more meticulous or unrelentingly _merciless_ than a restaurant devoted to elegant fine-dining. There are near-endless lists of standards kept for every possible situation and scenario, protocols to be followed to the letter. The staff must be always in complete awareness of their surroundings and everyone who occupies it, ready to move in the instant their presence is necessitated, and even anticipate when they will be needed beforehand. Everything from table setting, meet-and-greet, seating, taking orders, serving food and drink. It all requires precision, discretion, discipline, and the ease of control to work in plain sight of countless onlookers.

Military training sometimes comes close, but lacks attention-to-detail and discretion; too loud and boisterous. Technical engineering often comes closer, but lacks refinement, or keen awareness of the subtle nuances of people; too oblivious to circumstances outside the objective.

Perhaps this point is becoming clear to you – that the myriad of skills required to succeed in fine dining also lend themselves to other, less-than-innocent professions. Not only that, but a restaurant makes excellent cover: the employees bind together like a fiercely loyal clan, able to keep secrets, act as one, and support each other in times of need. This is why they come to me to learn my ways, and why I acted as I did when _she _came.

\

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><p>

Serge Noire was making his rounds through the restaurant's dining area, just as the evening dinner rush was picking up. Many of the tables now were occupied by expectant guests, the wait-staff were busy ferrying themselves from table to table, and a muffled, not-quite-frantic din of activity poured from the kitchen.

In short: a normal enough weekend evening. That's when Noire's assistant –a well-built white tiger by name of Chandra– came to Serge bearing the look of someone with news. He didn't speak until the two were side-by-side, and could converse without risk of being overheard.

"Someone just tried to break in." he was Fortunan by his name and slight accent, which eased its way through his trained voice, "We have her secured in the back."

"And you haven't discharged the poor wretch according to our procedures. Curious." Serge mused.

"She is... _different_."

Chandra handed Noire a fresh photograph, still warm from the printer, which showed a somewhat scruffy lady raccoon. She wore a hooded sweater and cargo pants, all in dull colors of gray and brown. He most striking feature however was her eyes: not the color –a grayish hazel– but how they were alert, scanning, alive with that constant state of awareness that Serge had grown to know well, and easily recognize in others.

"Hm."

Serge had to concede that point: she certainly appeared different.

"She's clean." Chandra continued to fill in, "No weapons on her, but she was toting a bag full of tech-goodies, and she also asked for you by name."

The two closed in toward a door marked 'Employees Only', near the kitchen, where the sounds and smells intensified as they neared.

"What do we have on her?" Serge asked.

He and Chandra passed through the door, leaving behind the dull cacophony of the restaurant's dining area. The busy clamor of the kitchens however was far more evident here. The two passed a door on their right, through which the kitchen staff could be seen, and heard,

"The first round of contacts haven't turned up anything, and she doesn't match anyone in our databases. She won't spill a peep about anything unless its to you, so she claims." Chandra's tone altered, becoming colder, more sinister, "Do you want the boys and I to run the gauntlet on her?"

They came to a stop outside a door with no label, no identifying marks of any kind; just a lock.

"No." Serge answered over his shoulder as he approached the door, "Not before _I've_ spoken with her, at least."

He disengaged the lock and passed through, leaving Chandra outside.

The room was small, nondescript, probably intended to be a storeroom by the original architect, but not now. The room was completely empty, devoid of any furniture of any kind, with only a single lonely fixture overhead providing light.

There, leaning against the wall with arms crossed like she hadn't a care in the world, was the lady raccoon from the photograph. She regarded Serge with little more than a passing glance, but that was enough. She looked away, still with that bored expression, and waited.

Noire stepped into the center of the room, moving slow, and assessed her in silence.

"What is your name?" Serge asked. It didn't matter to him what she answered, but rather: how.

"Rachelle Cooney." she answered quickly.

"How did you get in?"

"I came through your back door."

"It's locked–"

"Bypassed–"

"Guarded–"

"Distracted–"

"Watched by cameras–"

"Blinded–"

"Sensitive audio monitors–"

"Flooded with noise–"

"and thermal sensors–"

"Easily nullified when you stick a pane of glass in front of them."

She was concise, controlled, and confident; marks of a practiced professional. Rachelle was examining Serge just as he examined her, each drawing certain conjectures about the other, inserting tentative placeholders at certain conclusions, forming hypotheses that demanded testing. So test each other they did, in the best way they knew how under the circumstances: speak, and gauge the other's reaction.

"Do you know what happened to the last idiot thieves who tried to rob this place?" Serge finally asked.

"It was all over the news the next day: _Restaurant Owner Ruins Robbers._"

"Then it is fortunate you are not an idiot thief."

"If I was, I doubt we'd be speaking."

"Hm."

"The thing about that little incident though;" Rachelle mused as she stepped away from the wall, "I would've expected someone in your... unique position... to show a little more restraint, instead of mangling malcontents. Why'd you do it, if you don't mind me asking?"

If Cooney knew about the black-market 'intensive training program' Noire ran out of this restaurant, then there was no need to deny the fact. He'd embraced those so-called 'demons' long ago, and she wasn't going to hold that fact against him.

"A small matter of pride," Serge answered with ease, "the very same reason you made contact with me in this show-offish way, no?"

"What makes you think that?" Rachelle asked, intrigued.

"Simple." Noire explained, "No one with the skills to do as you've done would be stupid or clumsy enough to be so easily caught after overcoming the other obstacles, not unless it was _planned_ that way. Ergo, you _expected_ to meet me face to face this way, on my terms, without any feasible means to harm me. The sensible reason to plan such a scenario is if your intention is merely to speak with me."

"Maybe that's true." she said with a shrug,

"Still, there is this question: what made you so certain I would speak with you personally?"

"The same reason you lost Cerberus years ago, confronted and maimed the robbers yourself, and the same reason you're going to seriously consider the proposition I have for you."

"Hm..."

"You see, Serge, I'd like to talk a litte about Lethe."

_A small matter of pride._

And that's when Serge raised an eyebrow, and presented Rachelle with the slightest hint of a smile. She was good.

"Touché, Mademoiselle."

\

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><p>

Cerberus was just a little bit different now.

The ship itself was still more-or-less a lifeless hulk, with her power and primary systems still offline. Though the bodies of Adrian Crane and Malcolm Aries had long since been transferred aboard the Schwarzwind and transferred elsewhere, the stench of death lingered still where they were found, refusing to leave the ship behind. Yet despite these circumstances, there were signs of life stirring in Cerberus nonetheless.

The ship's medical bay was set up as the impromptu 'base of operations', complete with portable light sources, heating units, and necessary supplies that were transferred aboard before the Schwarzwind departed. It was a lot like camping out, but on a 'ghost ship', in space.

James, Scott, Pigma and Peppy had somewhat unpleasant but necessary business to attend to in the wake of recent events. Rachelle Cooney had gone on her own to follow the only solid lead they had: a shadowy figure by name of Serge Noire.

Normal LCI protocol would've had the nameless wolf 'Wiley' taken into custody and sweated for information. 'Normal' however was something encountered rarely, if ever, in field operations, and this jumble was anything but normal. And besides, Wiley had been utterly stonewalling the attempts by Cerberus's crew, so Rick instead opted to remain aboard Cerberus, with 'Wiley', and try something outside the box.

It was a gamble, to stay alone with someone known to be dangerous, and leaving him unrestrained, but Rick was confident willing to take this chance. With the Mercutio 2 shuttle docked at one of Cerberus's airlocks, locked out so only he could use it, Rick had the only means off the ship. 'Wiley' wouldn't be able to sneak off, and if he tried something, Cooney would be ready to react. If Scott's , was to be believed, Wiley had –at least for a moment– been compliant, and Rick hoped to be able to capitalize on that.

Of course, 'hope' was the key term here. Wiley had been anything but cooperative in the short time he and Rick had been stuck together, but at least they were talking.

"So, who the hell are you, _Rick?_" The pale wolf asked offhand while he rummaged through the food supplies, "A cop? An agent? Some kind of Investigator?"

"I'm just trying to figure out what happened here, that's all." Cooney answered, checking on the power supply and heating unit.

"What's there to say?" 'Wiley' began as he tore open a food package, and continued speaking between mouthfuls, "Some cavalier mercs show up out of nowhere... they blow the raid, and I sneak aboard this ship... Then the damned bluefur came out of nowhere and crashes the mercs' party in turn."

"But that's not the whole story now is it?" Rick figured, "Harrow and Chakori got off the ship, but you? You were left here to die: what happened?"

"And why should I tell you?"

"Why shouldn't you?"

"For starters, I don't know a damned _thing_ about you," Wiley tossed the empty food package away, and circled around Rick, weaving between empty beds, medical equipment, and the 'camping' gear, "not who you are, who you're working for– what happens to me if I talk? What do _I _get for trusting you? And even then: how do I know you'll stick to your word? I need to know who I'm dealing with here."

"So do I." Cooney responded.

"Oh _please, _you already know _plenty _about me." Wiley guffawed, rolling his eyes, "I'm sure your little friends filled you in on everything they knew. So yeah, I'm a _bratok, __a 'brother',_ for Harrow. It's just some fancy Katini word they use for 'guy who does things'. Yeah, I sabotaged the Caius Company fighters and no, I don't regret doing it, not a bit, so don't try to make me feel bad about it or anything. If they were too stupid to check their hardware before liftoff, or properly screen their maintenance crew, then they didn't deserve to live and fight in the first place."

"Pity then, that you weren't as thorough as you're supposed to have been, and then clumsy after that."

"Shit happens." the wolf grumbled back.

"And it doesn't un-happen, ever." Rick retorted with a healthy dose of snark, "You're in this mess right now, 'Wiley', and it's your choice how this plays out. Play it right, and you'll walk out on top."

"On top of _what, _exactly?" Wiley demanded, "Give me a reason to trust you."

"I can help you."

"What kind of chump areyou to think you can help me?"

"Lylat Central Intelligence." Rick supplied in an instant, "I'm an agent."

There was a momentary stall from Wiley at this. He had to pause to think, to reconsider, to figure the odds again.

"So, you're a government spook," he said with a slow, knowing nod, "the kind of creep who'll just use me and dispose of me when you get what you want."

"Now that's an _awfully_ broad assumption to make my good man." Rick challenged, speaking in lofty tones, "You don't see me treating you like dirt just because you've killed, maimed, and committed other acts of atrocity. You were doing your job, I shouldn't hold that against you."

"It's all an act." the wolf called him out, shaking his head "This is that _'good cop/bad cop'_ crap, isn't it?"

"You're afraid." Cooney observed.

"I'm suspicious." Wiley corrected.

"What did Harrow do to make you so afraid?"

"I _told_ you: I'm not afraid–"

"But what is suspicion if not the fear to trust?"

"It's _pragmatism._" the pale wolf growled back, "The people you trust are the ones best prepared to screw you."

"Is that how you wound up in _this_ mess? Did you trust Harrow just an inch too far?" Rick made a broad sweeping gesture all around Cerberus's medical bay, "After a disaster like that, why should you trust _anyone?_"

"I don't." Wiley affirmed, leering at the raccoon with his piercing violet eyes.

Cooney returned the wolf's relentless gaze with a calm composure, so meticulously maintained, like a house of cards. "I'm not asking you to trust me, but if you want to get through this, you'll have to put up with me whether you like it or not."

"Is that a threat?" His body tensed ever so slightly and his fur stood up on end, more out of a ground-in instinct than a decision to prepare to fight.

"That depends: do you feel threatened?" Rick asked.

Wiley stood his ground in silence, making little to no movement aside from a few twitches of his eyes.

"Heh, good one." he said at last, then turned away shaking his head.

From what Rick could tell, 'Wiley' was paranoid, and perhaps rightly so. Everything he said and did traced back to an underlying, deep-seated fear, despite his blatant denial. He was afraid first and foremost of one thing: Intelligence. Rick suspected he had images of dark rooms, bright lights, inescapable prisons, faceless cold-hearted machine-like people with no regard for life, and the remorseless tortures they'd inflict. The wolf was also restless, anxious, like a wild animal trapped too long in a cage. Even then, Cooney couldn't help but think there was something deeper even than these things, fueling his fears even further.

The only way to get him to open up was to get him to trust. The most apparent way to earn his trust for now was to contradict his fears, to be 'honest'. If this meant feeding him information, so be it.

In this time, Wiley had once again gone into the supplies, and emerged with a bottle of water.

"Just out of curiosity, do you got anyone special in your life?" Wiley asked offhand over his shoulder.

"Intelligence work isn't exactly great for relationships." Rick answered, which was true enough.

Where was he going with this?

"No kidding, don't want to give your enemies leverage they can use against you or anything." he cracked open the bottle and took a swig of the refreshing liquid, "Still, that doesn't mean you can't have a fling or two, right?"

"It happens." Rick conceded with a shrug.

"What about that coon chick you're hanging around with?"

"We're partners." Rick stated flatly, "She and I work together."

"Oh come on, there's gotta be more to it than that." the wolf insisted, "I've seen the way you two are."

"Sometimes, we play the part of lovers or spouses for a cover." Cooney gave him that much, but he was dangerously close to crossing a line. "It's not real when we do, it's all an act."

"Just like this buddy-buddy thing you're pulling with me." Wiley pointed out.

"What makes you so sure this isn't real?"

"What makes you so sure you and she aren't?"

That was the line, and Rick steered the conversation away from it,"We're here to talk about _you,_ remember?"

"What? Mr. spooky spy-man doesn't want to talk about his feelings? " Wiley prodded again, sensing a soft spot.

"That's a conversation you and I just aren't going to have." Cooney asserted, in case he hadn't made his point clear enough.

"A shame, and just when you were starting to get interesting too."

"So what happened?" Rick asked, reeling the conversation back to its original purpose, "Here on this ship, before we found you."

"You _do _have feelings, don't you?" the wolf pulled at, ignoring the question. He'd caught a hold of something in Cooney, and he wasn't about to let it go so easily, "Seriously, who doesn't?"

Rick was having none of it, and stayed stubbornly away from the subject, "Why did Harrow leave you here, instead of taking you with him, or just outright killing you?"

"You said yourself that I shouldn't make sweeping generalities about you, which means you _aren't_ a stoic, emotionless machine."

"Why?"

"Did you and she ever–"

"Answer!"

"You know..." Wiley clapped hands together, with such an innocent, slightly smug gleam in his eyes.

There was nothing for it. The pale wolf wasn't going to talk, and would rather spend his efforts playing head games with Cooney instead of cooperating. He'd have to try again some other time, when he could better focus.

"I've have enough of this." disgusted, Rick turned his back and started to leave, "When you're ready to talk–"

Wait...

Back turned.

Guard down.

Instinct took over.

Rick twisted into a fighting stance, and wound Wiley already coming down with an elbow meant for his head. Rick sidestepped the blow and grabbed the wolf's arm, slipping under the center of gravity for a throw. Wiley interrupted the move as he drove a knee into Cooney's ribs, then shoved him out into the ship's central corridor.

"_You..._" Wiley advanced, snarling in a fit of rage "are one pain in the _ass!_"

"The feeling is mut–"

"Shut up!" he roared as he kicked the downed raccoon, "Just– _Shut!_ _Up!_"  
>When he'd cooled off, a little, Wiley yanked Rick up by his coat and brought him to within an inch of his seething face.<br>"Where's your shuttle docked?"

"P– portside airlock." Cooney sputtered.

Wiley twisted Rick up and around with his arm behind his back, half dragging half carrying the smaller and more slightly built raccoon through Cerberus's corridors. The way was lit only by a sparse string of tripod-mounted lights, making a slow pulse between darkness and light as Wiley charged through toward the portside airlock.

Rick chose not to resist, for now. Wiley was the better fighter, and he'd need Rick's authorization if his intent was to jump ship. Thise gave him time to recover from the shock of the attack, and possibly salvage the situation before it was too late.

Even now, when Rick glanced up at the wolf from his 'helpless' position, there was still fear in Wiley. It was a twisted, tortured, denied fear, but fear nonetheless. "You're running away." Cooney observed.

"No shit." Wiley drawled in full sarcasm.

"Whatever it is, you won't be able to escape it this way." Rick warned, "You have to stand your ground and face–"

"I don't want to hear it!" the wolf barked, "You have _no idea _the shit I've been through."

"Because you won't _tell_ me." Rick pointed out, "You won't let me help you."

"Helping the lowlife likes of me is the _last _thing on your mind."

"You don't know that!"

"_Bullshit!_" Wiley snapped back, "I have been shot at, locked up, starved, frozen, pumped full of drugs and mind-raped; all by people who said they could _'help me'_..."

They'd just arrived at Cerberus's portside airlock. The area here was cold, without the heating units placed in more used portions of the ship, and their breath came out in misty puffs. The only light here was provided solely by one of the harsh, tripod-mounted work lights, which cast long and stark shadows through the corridor before fading into obscurity.

"You want to help me so bad? _Here:_" Wiley planted Rick in front of the airlock control terminal, which was powered by an external supply spliced into the works, "Open the door and get me off this fucking ship."

Rick did as demanded, and in a few moments the airlock's inner door groaned and screeched its way open. The wolf grabbed Cooney by the back of his coat and shirt collar in a tight fist, his _left _fist, and began to lead him into the open airlock. Thankfully, Wiley had made a few key errors leading up to this moment – something he seemed prone to.

Time to act.

In an instant, Rick twisted around counterclockwise, using his left elbow to break Wiley's grip as he ducked and slipped past the wolf; exchanging places. Wiley came at him in an instant, face sharpened with disdain bordering on rage, and hands barred like talons–

_* Blam! *_

A blaster shot tore straight into the pale wolf's hand, leaving a sizzling, slightly charred burnt hole in the palm. Wiley hadn't patted Rick down for weapons –his biggest mistake– and allowed Cooney the opportunity to pull his concealed handgun and make the shot.

"Augh!" the wolf reeled back, clutching his crippled hand by the wrist.

Rick followed up at this crucial moment with a firm front-kick, moving Wiley completely into the open airlock. Then Cooney closed the door, sealing him inside.

"What the hell is this?" he demanded. His voice crackling with static through the airlock's intercom system.

"You wanted off..." Rick had changed. His voice was filled with a malice and cruelty that he'd, up until then, kept bottled away. "You're getting off."

Wiley checked the outer door; there was no shuttle docked here, just the black emptiness. In a momentary flash of panic, he went for the failsafe inside the airlock that was supposed to get him out, but it wasn't working. No matter how he pounded the switch, the door remained closed.

He looked over to Rick, stood just on the other side, shaking his head slowly at Wiley's frantic attempts. Cooney's face had lost any sense of friendliness that was there before, replaced now by a stony, sharp-chiseled glare that showed no hint of mercy.

"You wouldn't–" the wolf babbled, eyes bouncing between the two airlock doors, "You– you're bluffing–"

A sharp hiss and whistle pierced through his words. The chamber was decompressing.

"Oh god _no!_"

He lunged for the inner door, desperate. This was true panic now, an immediate fear for his life, of suffocating, of being swept out into the infinite black nothing.

"I'll talk!" he found he was gasping. The air in the chamber was getting thin, fast, and he wouldn't be able to breathe in a few more moments, "Goddammit I'll talk!"

But the only thing that responded through the inner door's window was the stone-cold, remorseless face of that raccoon, perfectly content to let him die.

"Open the door!" he shouted, pounding on that inner door.

Rick turned to the side, and entered a command? He was going to let him out. Sure enough, there was a clank and groan of an opening door, muffled by the depleted atmosphere, but the door didn't open.

The already diluted air within the chamber rushed away, and he felt the breath being sucked out of his lungs. The weak grip of his oxygen-starved hands couldn't hold on any longer, and he was swept away into the silent black void of space outside.

The last thing he saw was that look of unbridled, merciless cruelty in the raccoon, growing further and further away. After that, the silent black of space and the silent black of oblivion became one and the same.

\

* * *

><p>

Rachelle and Serge had reconvened in one of the restaurant's decadent private dining booths; Serge insisted on it. Cooney had proven to be a most fascinating guest, and the least he could do for her trouble was to be a gracious host while she discussed her proposition.

The booth was isolated off from the main dining area, just as well since Rachelle had nothing to wear, and looked out-of-place as it was in her dull street clothes. The table between them was clear of any place-setting, and held only a small holographic projector, showing an image of an all too familiar ship: Cerberus.

Rachelle had spent the bulk of their time in this booth filling Serge in on all the details he needed to know, including the untimely demise of most of the mercenary crew, and the awkward situation with the locked out mainframe, but left out many things that weren't important to the proposition. Noire knew _exactly_ what she wanted: Cerberus's Lethe encryption codes.

"I can be persuaded to aid you, on certain... _conditions._"

"Name them."

"First: I will go with you personally to Cerberus, and restart the ship myself."

"Done." she agreed with a curt nod.

"Second: when you have what you need, I keep the ship."

"Why?" Rachelle asked, perplexed by Noire's odd request, "What use do you have for it?"

"That is no concern of yours." Serge waived the question away, "You want my help: those are my terms."

It was a tough choice. Cerberus meant a lot to Scott and the other deceased mercenaries, and it didn't seem right not to include them in this. Time was wasting though, and Serge was the one and only lead they had which could help them out of this situation. They needed his help _now, _but perhaps the terms could be negotiated later, when time wasn't an ever-looming menace to the situation.

"Done." she finally accepted.

"Hm."

The two reached across the table and exchanged a professional handshake, sealing the deal.

\

* * *

><p>

...

_There is nowhere you can run where you can escape_

...

"Ghaaa!" Wiley awoke with a scream, followed by a series of gasping breaths.

He found himself in an increasingly frustrating and familiar circumstance. He as unable to move, it felt like sedatives again. His blurred vision soon came into focus, and found that clouded gray face staring right back at him again, like a vision from a nightmare.

"_You!_" he snapped, as much in rage as astonishment. "What– how– did you– but I–"

Maybe it was a nightmare. Maybe he'd died and gone to Hell. Maybe the whole thing was another one of those damned hallucinations. Any of those would be as good an explanation as any.

"You'd be surprised how robust the body can be." Rick mentioned coolly, "Done right, it can even withstand exposure to a complete vacuum, but only for a short while."

Nope. Real. The crazy coon had planned it out, tricked him. He'd been too desperate and too distracted to follow through on the escape plan like it was supposed to go, or catch on to the little hints. There were so many things he should've done differently, and _this _is what he got for those mistakes...

Those damned _headaches_–

"If I recall, you said you'd talk..." Rick reminded him, looming over Wiley like a charged storm-cloud, ready to strike at a moment's notice, "So talk."

There was nothing for it. Even if he could try for another escape, the coon was onto him, and he'd only make more of those stupid mistakes he'd never made before. This was the only option now that made any sense to try.

"He's in my head." Wiley admitted at long last, "That goddamn bluefur is in my head."

\

/


	11. A Darker Shade of Gray

**灰色の暗い暈し**_**  
>A Darker Shade of Gray<strong>_

-Many years earlier-

The term 'dichotomous' might have been a good word to describe the room, though the distinctions between where one side started and the other ended weren't exactly obvious.

One side of the room was organized neatly enough, making at least an effort to efficiently use of the abbreviated space. It was an ambitious endeavor, since the available areas were being contested between technology, cosmetic products, reference materials and manuals, highly stylized and cute caricatures, small hand-tools, and other items that further blended the girl/geek mixture. The scene was completed by Rachelle Cooney, sitting on her bed with a notebook computer on her lap, trying to distract herself with it by any and all means available.

The other side of the room was very, very cluttered. It wasn't especially dirty though, even if the wastebasket desperately needed emptying, and the laundry hamper needed just as desperately to be run through the wash. What stood out more was the scattered, unfocused, eclectic collection of odds, ends, and knickknacks, which were as widely varied as could be imagined, ranging from a lonely concert poster, to a half-finished puzzle cube, to a few neglected paper-bound novels among several other items. Completing the ensemble was a dead-asleep Richard Cooney, who lay sprawled out on his bed, still fully dressed in the typical street clothes of a Corneria City teenager.

Rachelle was worried for him. He barely got any sleep these days, and when he did, it was something like he was now, just randomly collapsed onto the nearest softish surface for hours and hours. He'd been on and off for the better part of two weeks, after the breakup–

No.

To call what that slut did to Rick a "breakup" would've legitimized it. It wasn't a relationship, it never was, it was nothing but a sham. The damned whore had toyed with Rick from the start, preying on his loneliness, his gullibility, his need for someone. Rachelle had tried to show him the mistake he was making by falling for her, by letting that tart tug on him like a marionette puppet, but he wouldn't have any of it, so enamored he was by her phony charms.

And just when Rick thought he'd found "the one," she pulled the rug right out from under him.

It destroyed him, completely and utterly, crushing him into a dull and depressed emotionless lump. She missed the old Rick: the one who could come up with all the funny jokes, and bring a precision punch-line just when and where it was needed. He could lighten even the darkest moods, not just with comedy. With all the things going on in this family now, Rachelle could've used some of that... whatever it was he did.

The door to the apartment opened, and someone staggered inside.

That was probably Dad, finally back from wherever he had gone this evening. He had been spending so much time away from home since he was laid-off from the shop, it was rare when everyone was together and coherent enough to speak to each other.

Part of Rachelle wanted to go out and meet him, but Mom was already there, and she could hear the conversation through the walls as clear as a bell.

"Any luck?" she heard Mom ask.

There was no answer.

"Tom..."

"No." Dad finally grunted back.

"Well, maybe you'll do better next time–"

"Don't you get it, Angie?" Dad cut her off, "We're finished, done, screwed. We will have _nothing!_"

"No. You can't think like that, Tom." mom said, trying to calm him down, "We need to be strong, we need to pull through this, for the kids."

"Do we? _Do _we?" Though Rachelle wasn't able to see what was going on, in her head she could see dad: so desperate, so hopeless, so jaded. "Am I supposed to be their shining example, so I can coddle them, tell them it's going to be okay? Well, take a look: it's nothing but lies and wishful thinking to make them think there's something worthwhile in the end. I'm not going to lie for them, not anymore. There's nothing waiting for them, _nothing!_"

This wasn't him. This wasn't dad. This wasn't the plucky tinker she'd always remembered him as. This was someone that had never existed before: someone angry, frustrated. It was like the engine of Life had been stalled, undermined by a faulty component, broken, and he didn't have the tools needed to fix it.

"You wouldn't be talking like this without the drink." Mom protested. She could tell her husband was keeping something. That prying, prodding voice of hers –subtle as a sledgehammer– couldn't lie.

"No, Angie, I wouldn't. I can think clearer like this, better in-fact, and I'm not afraid to lay it out like it is." Thomas Cooney, "We're born, we live in a craped out world we can't do anything about, and we die: end of story!"

The pictures Rachelle developed in her head, the image of a man who could say things like that, were nothing short of frighting. She wanted nothing more than to not hear any of this, to just sink away into nothingness for a while.

"Tom, you need to stop this." Mom commanded, "It's not helping anyone."

"And no one's been helping _us_... no one." Dad said through a ghostly sigh. Rachelle could barely hear his words now, so hushed, so defeated. "I'm going out."

"You're going out drinking: not tonight, not anymore." Mom must've had her arms crossed, foot tapping, eyes piercing Dad with that unmistakable _'you're not getting off the hook' _gaze that Rick and Rachelle had been subject to far too often before.

"Dammit, I'm already perfectly buzzed as it is!" Dad snapped back, "Why would I need to get any drunker, huh? Any more and I wouldn't think or walk straight."

"But you're _not _thinking straight!" Mom pointed out, and let out a long sigh before asking, "Why did you bother coming back at all?"

"I..."

Say you wanted to see the kids today. Say you missed them, and Mom too. Say how much you care, that you didn't mean those horrible things you said. Rachelle could hear that wavering, uncertain longing in his voice, he couldn't hide it, but Thomas Cooney couldn't find it in him to say those words.

"I gotta go meet someone."

"This late?" Mom asked, confused, quietly startled, "Who exactly are you meeting, Tom?"

"I can fix us, I can make it all work again, good as new." Dad assured, trying to convince himself as much as Mom, "But I need you to trust me. I need you not to worry."

"Just, promise you'll come back." she implored, holding Dad back just a while longer, "Can you do that?"

There was a pause; nobody said anything, and it didn't sound like they were doing anything either. They were probably looking at each other; Mom with that sad but stern, concerned look to match her words, and Dad replying with a little nod, accepting the burden.

"Where else do I got left to go?"

The door opened, followed by diminishing footsteps, and when the door closed, he was gone.

Mom broke down into a quiet convulsion of little sobs, barely heard by Rachelle. These too went away, as Mom carried herself off to the room she and Dad used.

Where was he going? What was he up to? Was he doing something dangerous? Would they see him again? What would that mean for the rest of us?

No. He'll be back. He's _got_ to come back.

Rachelle shook those thoughts out of her head, and only just realized that she was trembling, that her breath was coming in and out as quiet shuddering gasps, that a cold liquid had spilled from her eyes.

This wasn't her; she wasn't one to vent, or to emote, or to need someone to cling to. She'd gotten this far in life as "that weird girl" with no more trouble than she couldn't handle. The Cooneys were never a large family, but they were strong, independent, and stuck together like glue. But she couldn't do this all by herself, not this time, not while Dad wasn't Dad, Mom wasn't Mom, Rick wasn't Rick, and she wasn't Rachelle. She found herself desperately wishing for someone to be there for her, someone who could remind her that the world wasn't as crapped out a place as it seemed.

But, there _was_ someone there, reminding Rachelle of his presence with a little snore.

Rick was still laying there on his back, legs and striped tail spilling off the bed, and his feet landing squarely on the floor. Rachelle so envied him at that moment, he who'd slept so blissfully ignorant to the bitter exchange between the parents, happily oblivious in the realm of his dreams. It almost made her jealous.

She got up, and moved across the small bedroom to him, watching him: the rise and fall of his slow steady breathing, the little twitches from his dreams. That wasn't enough, she needed more just to see him and hear him, she'd always seen him and heard him, she needed to _feel _him.

Rachelle knelt down right in front of her brother, careful not to wake him, and very gently laid her head on Rick's stomach, where his t-shirt had pulled up a little and exposed a couple inches of his bare fur. Then she simply listened: to his breathing, to his pulse, to the odd little gurgly noises his body made; all the components and inner mechanisms of life itself. Somehow, it calmed her to hear all that, like listening to the constant, reassuring thrum of an engine. The rhythm of life will go on, and keep right on functioning–

Then, as she lay there with her brother, she felt something press against her chest. She drew back away from Rick, and saw the unmistakable lust-lump in his pants. He must've been having one of _those _dreams. But actually, it looked more than a little uncomfortable for him, having it all jammed in there. Did it feel as awkward for him as it looked?

The solution seemed simple enough, and he looked like he needed it anyway– wait– time out. What the hell was she thinking? It's _not_ her business to think about her brother's hardware, her own flesh-and-blood. That's for him: him alone and his...

His bitch-poor excuse of a girlfriend? No. He didn't have anyone.

Rachelle Cooney was sick and tired of the world sucking.

She was tired of the job and money troubles that plagued Dad, the endless worrying and stress Mom endured for it, and the manipulative bitch who destroyed Rick for no other reason than because she could. If only she could make the world _not_ suck, even it was only for a moment or two, even if it was only the _illusion_ of not sucking–

Rachelle found herself still staring at the sleeping form of her brother, and suddenly the thought of his masculine hardware didn't seem all that immoral by comparison. Who else was going to give half a damn for him if not her? Who else would've been there when the infatuation collapsed around him? Who else is going to guide him out of the hell he found himself in? You know what: screw society! If she could make Rick feel some tiny shred of good in this crapsack of a world, than why the hell shouldn't she? The body's nerves could care less what triggers them, and the brain could always sort it out later.

With this invigorated determination, Rachelle reached down to her sleeping brother's pants and undid the font fly of the jeans he was wearing, opening him up one layer at a time. Once the front of his pants were open, there was no ignoring the very clear outline formed by his rod, pressing against and stretching the fabric of his boxer-brief shorts.

One more layer to go.

She reached into the elastic strap of his boxer-briefs, and–

"Mrrph..."

Rick stirred from his sleep. His weary eyes crept open, wandered around in that aimless, listless way they often do when one is disturbed from their sleep. He might've even had a chance at slipping back into sleep had he not discovered the scene occurring at his lower reaches.

Everything stopped.

Rick found his fly busted wide open, and a familiar hand reaching down into his trunks. There was his sister, Rachelle, down between his legs, looking back with eyes open so wide they were threatening to burst out of their sockets. The expression 'caught with a hand in the cookie jar' did not even come close to comparing the to the wide-eyed, frozen, petrified shock that had taken her.

In this immobile state, Rachelle waited for the reaction: a screamed 'what the hell!,' flinching away, a string of questions, a cluster of F-bombs, storming out of the room, all of the above, something... _anything..._ but no. All Rick did was sit there with a totally blank, dropped-jaw stare of complete and utter confusion.

Things remained thusly for some time. Neither Rick or Rachelle seemed to blink or breathe or anything while it lasted. It could've been a few seconds that felt like a few minutes, or a few minutes that felt like a few hours; time does funny things like that in these situations.

However long it was, Rick finally inhaled a long breath, sat up, and rested his scrambled head in his hands with an equally slow exhalation. That's when Rachelle removed her hand from his boxer-briefs as he moved, and sat down next to him.

She wanted to start from the beginning and explain how she reached the point where she was groping him. She wanted to answer any of the seven-thousand plus questions he must've had. She wanted to just say nothing at all. She wanted to leave him alone to deal with on his own. She wanted to stay right there and work it out with him. She wanted to apologize profusely for what she did. She wanted to say that she didn't regret it one bit and would do it again. More than anything, she wanted some kind of actual response from him that she could work with, anything at all besides the blank, emotionless silence.

"Rick, I... I–"

Her stammering was cut off when another set of lips locked against her own, when Rick pulled her into him. Though surprised, she didn't fight it, nor that which came after.

\

* * *

><p>

Rick needed time to think, to be alone for a bit after everything that'd happened. So he walked through the ship, through the dim corridors of Cerberus. It was quiet, and cold, with only the sounds of his own echoing footsteps and the quiet hum of some piece of equipment here and there to fill the silence. It was just him and his thoughts out here.

He was soon reminded though why being alone with his thoughts wasn't always the best option.

_Did you and she ever– ?_

"That dumb punk sure cut you deep, didn't he?"

Right next to Rick was another Rick, an exact copy of himself. While Rick was calm, controlled, and precise as he walked, the other Rick was free, uninhibited, shameless, and just wouldn't leave him alone.

Rick's thoughts had strong opinions of their own, which would manifest themselves as a fake duplicate of himself –a doppelgänger was what these hallucinations were called– and furthermore, his thoughts had a tendency for snarky backtalk.

"And what exactly is so 'fake' about me?" his duplicate asked, indignant, "I'm just as real as all those other thoughts swirling around in your head up there. And besides, you never talk to anyone else about your issues, _ever,_ so you may as well bounce them off me. I won't judge." after a second, he added, "Not too harshly, anyway."

In his entire career in Intelligence, no one had ever pushed him as close to the edge as Wiley had, not even Osprey Caldwell. They were two completely different situations–

"But were they all that different? It was more like an inversion, only _you _were the one in power this time."

He had the situation under control. Wiley was only taunting him, trying to get a rise out of him, to distract him. Rick was just going to leave and give him time to cool off, nothing more, but he should've expected he'd try something desperate. He could respect being played for a fool, it certainly wasn't the first time someone had tried to manipulate him, nor would it likely be the last, but that wasn't what troubled him.

"Then what _did _trouble you?"

He... became someone else when he fought back, when he deceived him, when he sealed off that airlock, and when he literally sucked the life out of Wiley. There was a moment then when he was perfectly content to let him die, to dispose of him for good, to make him suffer.

"It felt good, didn't it? Having the power over someone's life and death at your fingertips?"

"That wasn't me." Rick reiterated, finally giving a verbal answer.

"Are you kidding? That was _absolutely_ you; you just never had the balls to let it out that way before."

"I overreacted."

"To what? The implication that you might've done the sex thing?" the doppelgänger scoffed, "Come on, people screw each other all the time, why should it be so special when _you_ do it?"

"She's my sister!" Rick snapped back.

"... and?" the doppelgänger wasn't fazed in the slightest, "You don't regret having done it, do you?"

"It's in the past; long past." Rick moved forward, eyes front, trying to focus on where he was going instead of that incessant voice that wouldn't leave him well enough alone.

"That may be true, but past or no it seems to be cropping up here and now, so much so that even a dumb punk can get a rise out of you from it. That's not good form, you know."

"That wasn't the point!" Rick insisted, "He's a captive asset: someone who doesn't have the right to ask those kind of questions about me and get a straight answer. _I'm_ the one who needed information, _he's_ the one who had it. Critical information is supposed to go from the asset to the agent, from him to me, not the other way around. I tried the nice guy approach, and he treated it like a joke, like... like..."

"Like a game, my good man. Like a game." Rick's duplicate filled in with a knowing smirk, "You were bluffing, and he called you on your bluff. But you turned out to have an _incredible_ ace up your sleeve, even if you didn't know it at the time."

The doppelgänger stepped in front of Rick, walking backward as Cooney continued forward. It didn't matter where he went, he'd only run into his thoughts again, and he was certain what they'd say next.

"When the dumb punk struck that precious little nerve of yours, it pushed you into a very dark place: into that unforgivable realm where serial killers, and psychopaths, and other complete monsters live and thrive. Down there, you can cast off your morals, your rules, and your other self-imposed limitations, letting you zero in and focus on your goal like a laser, and you let nothing stand in your way. Better yet, you can come back from that dark place when your work there is done: you can _control_ it."

_As a part of this agency, if you have to lie, cheat, steal, or otherwise disregard the established laws and morals for an operation, you're expected to do so. If you have to liaise and cooperate with individuals or institutions known to be corrupt, malevolent or otherwise twisted, you're expected to do so. If you have to _completely_ destroy another person's life in order to keep a vital operation active, you are expected to do exactly that._

"You didn't go into Intelligence to play nice, Rick. You joined up because you know how to play dirty, because this _is _you, and you wouldn't want it any other way."

"I joined because I chose to." Rick said bluntly.

"Exactly!"

The duplicate waited cheerfully for Rick to say something else, but he didn't. As uncomfortable as it was to admit, even to his hallucinated doppelgänger, there was truth in what his manifested thoughts were telling him.

"Would you have killed him?" the duplicate asked out of nowhere.

"I needed information."

"Yeah, but if you didn't–"

"Then I wouldn't need to speak with him, and I wouldn't have been in that position in the first place."

"Now you're just dodging the question."

"I don't deal in hypothetical situations, only viable scenarios."

"Okay, that's a blatant lie and you know it."

"It's what I do." Rick answered with a smirk of his own, to which the doppelgänger rolled his eyes.

"Very funny." he drawled with a healthy dose of sarcasm.

"What can I say? I have my moments." he said with a shrug.

Rick soon made his way back to Cerberus's med-bay, where Wiley lay fast asleep on one of the beds. He specifically asked to be administered tranquilizers after the interview so he'd be able to sleep when it was over. The interview was... rough on him, rougher than there was any right to expect. Apparently the psychic shenanigans of Cerinian voodoo, real or imagined, were far more potent than they'd been given credit for. This alone easily made it the most bizarre case Rick had ever worked on, and likely one of the most bizarre cases LCI has ever worked on.

The hallucinated duplicate walked over and looked the pale slumbering wolf up and down, asking, "So, what do you plan to do with him when this is all over?"

"I don't know." Rick answered, focused on other things, "I'll figure that out when it _is_ over."

With little else to do, he booted up a notebook computer that'd been left here, opened a word-processor, and started work on the standard LCI operations report.

[Operation: "Plowshare"]  
>[Report#: 6]<br>[Agent: Cooney, Richard, T.]

There are some things that simply did _not_ go into these reports. The little stints with his chronic hallucinated duplicate was one such thing, and so were the emotions he felt during the whole thing: the anger, the outrage, the little hints of shame. The op reports are strictly information and procedure: what happened, and what did you find out? Administration wasn't interested in the nebulous, wishy-washy realm of feelings and subjective experiences, at least not in the raw paperwork. If they wanted to know about these things, they'd ask personally, and almost always in a face-to-face situation.

[This is an account of the sequence of events occurring aboard the privateer vessel Cerberus following the evacuation of refugees and some crew, and prior to the arrival of the vessel Schwarzwind. This account is transcribed according to the testimony of an eyewitness...]

-To Be Continued-

Author Note:

Well, that was something.

I'm trying to think of something more to say, but I'm coming up blank. I do thank all of you who've read, and reviewed. As always, your feedback is most welcome.

Take care!


	12. Friends in Low Places

Author Notes:

Hey! Site updates!

I decided to go ahead and make a little cover thing for the story. It's made up of the Japanese characters 遺産 "isan" which comes from the complete title of the story: スターフォックスの遺産 "Star Fox: Legacy" A full explanation can be found in my user profile.

But that's enough blabbing from me. Time for more story!

/

* * *

><p>

"_He's in my head... That goddamn bluefur is in my head."_

"_Easy there–"_

"_How much do you know about Cerinians?"_

"_They're... different." _

"_Well no shit, genius, but how much do you really know? How much do you actually understand?" _

"_Why? Is it important?"_

"_When I start telling you strange things, when I start telling you about things that shouldn't be possible, I need you to promise that you won't think I'm insane, or just making up random crap. I need you to believe I'm not lying."_

"_All I want is the truth; _your_ truth."_

"_Don't say I didn't warn you..."_

/

* * *

><p><strong>低置に味方<strong>**  
><strong>_**Friends in Low Places**_

* * *

><p>

It hurt.

It was worse than any torture he'd been subjected to, any pain resistance conditioning he had to undergo, but this was a different kind of pain. It went deeper, cut harder, flooded every nook and cranny of his mind, shredded any sense of awareness. For a few moments at least, he didn't know where he was, what he was doing, or how that pain got there. Then it came back to him.

He was strapped to an uncomfortable examination bed, in a spartan medical bay, aboard Cerberus. There were two people standing over him: a skinny avian and an older ram, Adrian and Malcolm were their names.

_There is nothing you can do._

No! No more! He couldn't listen to that voice anymore. _Nothing_ was worth what he put everyone through. Fuck him! Fuck his revenge! Fuck his blood-money!

"You... you have to stop." he managed to say. His voice came out gasping, ravaged by what the drugs had done to him...

Holy Hell, what _have _the drugs done to him?

He could feel some of the deliriant effects of Substance D, some kind of amphetamines, a few others. There were some neurostimulators in there also, probably to keep him 'grounded' in reality, such as it was. He could still hear the others speak, see the room around him, and his memories were more or less intact. This made sense, the Cerberus crew wanted to question him, not send him on a drug-trip for the ages.

"We're not stopping _anything_ until you give us a reason to, you know this." the ram reminded him.

"The _ship!_" you goddamn idiot! He wanted to add that on, but didn't, "You have to stop the ship! _Stop __it!_"

Whatever other effects the psychoactive cocktail had, it did at least break free of that 'rut' the bluefur had on him. He just didn't care at this point anymore.

"I will do no such thing my friend, not without a damn good reason." that stubborn old ram said in his dull, patronizing tone, "Do you happen to have a damn good reason for me?"

Oh for the love of–

_They won't believe you._

Fuck you!

"He knows... He's waiting..." gotta make the words work, gotta make them come out right. Those drugs certainly didn't help with the speaking. "He knows and he's _waiting!_"

"Who?" Malcolm asked.

_You are nothing– no, _worse _than nothing, you are a worthless coward ..._

"_Urrggnn!_ You have to stop! _Now!_ or it'll be too late!"

This wasn't the drugs, not this time. The bluefur was in his head now, doing hell only knew what. He could handle drugs and torture and such, but he was never conditioned for this–

The two others were saying something, but he couldn't make out anything they said, not over the domineering voice in his head.

_And now, you will suffer for it._

And another spike drove into him, hitting him harder than even those crazy drugs they injected in him before. 'icy daggers in the head' would've been a picnic compared to this. There simply weren't words, to describe this. He didn't even hear his own voice scream, so smothered by whatever the hell was happening in his head.

He didn't remember blacking out. It was sort of like slipping into sleep, drifting into a dream without knowing realizing you've dozed off, but not really. For one, it hurt, like hell, probably worse so. After some time, it happened the other way, and he phased back into that slightly delirious state of consciousness.

Mercifully, that damned bluefur had finally shut up, and his mental fingers finally left him alone. Good, but also bad, because this meant he was focusing his attention on something else.

The effects of the drugs were still dancing in his head, sure, but this swirling delirium was a welcome step down from whatever it was the bluefur did to him. Were those alarms in the background? Maybe a conversation? Yes, it _was _a conversation.

"_Ooh,_ this Harrow fella's a real _spookster,_ ain't he?" the ram said. He sounded frustrated, agitated.

"You keep trying to get something from our guy here." He heard the bird said, "I'll head down to engineering and–"

Wait–

"No!" He remembered now, this was how Harrow picked them off. This was where his attention was focused. Come on. Form words. Spit them out... fucking drugs, "_d__on't_ do it, _don't_ take the bait."

"I'm going down there." Adrian said, not really caring. What will it take to get these assholes to listen? "We're sitting ducks until we reset the reactor failsafe."

That's gonna be the _least _of your problems in a minute. He began forming words to speak, but–

"Wait just a minute, Ardy" the ram stopped Adrian, "Now, you'd best explain yourself son."

_Finally, _you stuck-up old coot, you took the hint! Congratulations!

"He knows, and he's waiting..." Oh come on, they know this already. Complete the thought, use words, spit it out. "He'll pick you all off one by one from the shadows. That's how he works."

"You mean he's already aboard the ship?" Adrian asked. Um, no shit. Of course he's already aboard.

"How did he get aboard?" Malcolm demanded, "Where is he?"

Hell if I know. Broadly speaking, he's aboard your damned ship, but whatever, "I don't know, but if you take the bait, he will be there, and he will kill whoever you send."

"That's not a problem." Adrian assured, "I'll bring backup–"

"Then he _won't_ be there!" Yeah right, sure, take this creep for a fool, "He's not stupid, he won't spring his trap if you just try to trap him back. He'll slink away and try something else... something _worse._"

"How in hell is he going to know?" the ram questioned again, growing more irritated with each passing second, "Who are his accomplices?"

Really? You guys are still thinking in conventional terms? How in hell to explain what he does so they'll believe? He knew _what _Harrow does, he's seen the patterns, just not the details of _how._ Move! Time is a factor! Words! Speak!

"He'll know, he'll just _know, _and he'll hunt you all down and knock each and every one of you until there's nobody left... and then he'll kill me too." may as well go for the sympathy card, for what it's worth.

"Then cooperate with us, help us." the bird said, catching on to this, "We can protect you."

Well _great_ job so far guys! Here I am, whacked out on hell only knows what you injected into my system, getting mind-screwed by some Cerinian dickwad with a chip on his shoulder–

"No, you can't, not from him..." If they'd experienced what he did firsthand, if they'd known, they'd change their tune, "Shit, you can't even protect _yourselves._"

Wait, did they know he's Cerinian?

"We'll just see about that." the ram replied with his stubborn confidence. See how far that'll get you.

"You have _no_ idea what you chumps are up against, do you?" How dull are these guys? Did they not know what it meant to go up against this creep? "Harrow is Cerinian, a damned _bluefur, _and a freaking powerful one too."

"What kind of problem?"

/

"_I know what happened here, skip ahead. Tell me how you figured into the crew's plans."_

"_Hmph, I didn't."_

/

"Alright..." the ram accepted, letting out a gruff sigh, "I take it you've got some kind of plan in the works?"

Adrian turned to the white wolf, suspicion glaring from those eyes, "First: we sedate him."

"What? _Hell _no!" he protested.

"You're a liability, just like you said." the skinny avian said in a dry voice while he prepared another autoinjector tube, "If Harrow is in your head like you say, then I'm not going to take any chances with what that means. I'm putting you out." and he emptied yet another dose into his system.

"You're making a mistake! Detox me! Let me on my feet you... you..."

He grew tired, very tired, and everything began to fade into a dull blackness.

/

"_They knocked me out like a light, put me out of the way. I don't know for how long, but I didn't stay that way though."_

/

The first thing he remembered was a voice, _that _voice, and the one word it said without saying anything.

_Awaken._

With that word, he gradually returned to reality, growing aware, grounding himself in the world he found himself in. He wasn't strapped to the examination bed his time, not anymore, but was instead laying face-down on the med-bay floor. The bruises and sore spots he felt let him know it wasn't a gentle fall getting there. His head cleared up too, with the effects of those drugs waning away, but there was something else.

His slowly returning sight soon found a pair of feet in front of him. They were canid, strapped into a pair of athletic sandals, and the fur on them was blue.

"Stand up." Harrow ordered, and the pale wolf pulled himself onto his feet.

The Cerinian didn't stand quite as high him, but the shorter stature did nothing to diminish his presence. Harrow stood there, feet firmly rooted to the floor and arms folded across his chest. The hood of his sweatshirt dangled off his shoulders, displaying the razor sharp vulpine features of his face, and the laser glare of his eyes that bore straight through the wolf in front of him.

"I'll admit I'm disappointed." Harrow told him, his voice dripping with disgust, "You were stronger than the others; smarter, cunning, fearless, unscrupulous. You were ready–"

/

"_'You were ready'? What did he mean by that?"_

"_I'm... not sure. There were rumors, but there always are with Cerinians–"_

"_What rumors?"_

"_Ghost stories, more like... The best of us who did work for Harrow –the smartest, most skilled– sometimes they would just... disappear. They'd go out on a job one day, and never come back. most of us didn't think much of it, it's a tough life we scratch out, and people die or get caught all the time. Somehow though, I couldn't shake the feeling that something just wasn't right about it. I mean, the best got to be 'the best' because they kept coming back, they always did, even when it seemed like they wouldn't. For them to just drop off the map like that, without leaving a trace... It just wasn't right."_

"_In my experience, if something doesn't seem right, it usually isn't."_

"_I know, that's why I was done, that's why I wasn't going to do this anymore. I knew I was getting to that point, that 'elite' position, and I didn't want that to happen to me. After this last raid, I was just going to walk away from it all. The Cerberus kink just gave me an excuse."_

"_These raider gangs just don't let their members walk away like that. They keep track of you, hunt you down, especially the bigger ones."_

"_And that's a chance I was willing to take."_

"_If you'd have gotten free, if you'd made it out, what would you have done?"_

"_Anything else, anything at all."_

"_You were truly that desperate to get away?"_

"_If it's so hard to believe, then let me finish, and you can judge me then."_

"_Right. So Harrow caught up with you, but he didn't kill you."_

"_No. I fought back..."_

/

Before the Cerinian could finish the sentence, the wolf shot his hand forward in for a knuckle-strike to the throat.

His blow didn't connect.

Somehow Harrow simply wasn't 'there' when the fist arrived. Instead, the blue furred fox had already advanced forward, catching and twisting his wrist in an arm lock. The Cerinian pushed back, using the wrist-lock to force him off balance, following with a sweep kick at the back of his knee, sending the wolf down on his back.

Harrow was already on top before he hit the ground, with one foot smashing down on his tail, the other pinned on his chest. That exotic staff weapon of his appeared again, with the pronged, red-glowing end pointed straight at him, mere inched from his face.

The Cerinian didn't even miss a beat, "But look at you now: _pathetic._"

"Just shut the hell up and kill me, you sick bastard." he spat back at Harrow, "That's why you're here, so get on with it already."

The Cerinian paused a moment, considering the possibility it seemed, when–

"Come on! He went this way!" a muffled voice shouted. It sounded like one of the Cerberus crew, likely Malcolm by the gruff voice.

After hearing this, a sly little smirk developed on Harrow's face, "No." he said, almost whispered, and gave a small shake of his head, "I don't think I will."

When the Cerinian looked at him again, his eyes gleamed with that eerie pale light, flickering, flashing, like hundreds of little lightning flashes snapping on and off, one after the other. The headache started coming back again too, building, squeezing, crushing bringing out a an agony all its own. There might've even been a sound with it, a noise, something that like a staticky, writhing screech,

It became nearly impossible to sense what was real amidst the scrambled senses. There were images, flashes of a corridor, glimpses of the Cerberus crew, an occasional snippet of someone saying something, but it didn't make sense. Nothing seemed real or fake, true or false. Everything got chopped, blended, and smashed together in one great confused cacophony of the senses.

Then one voice, one phrase boomed out over the splattered everything.

_Let me show you just how weak your 'saviors' truly are._

His vision cleared up, as well as other senses, and thoughts too.

He found himself in the familiar central corridor of Cerberus, running at a pace just fast enough to not be too winded. His body felt strong, robust, but stiffened by the years. The carbine in his hands felt comfortable, but restless, itchy.

There were others with him. When he glanced back over his shoulder, he found a thin, long-beaked avian in a long coat toting a truly wicked shotgun. Next to him was a fierce eyed ashen furred leopardess, sporting a set of utilitarian, military style fatigues, and grasping a sturdy assault rifle in her battle-hardened hands.

Where are you, you little bluefur twink? There's only so many places you can hide, and we know every single one of them...

He was thinking thoughts that weren't his, saying words he didn't speak, in a voice that wasn't his own, all while looking through eyes that didn't belong to him. It felt, for lack of a better explanation, strange...

The lights went out, plunging the central corridor in a sudden darkness.

This wasn't right. Nobody had hit the switch. This wasn't supposed to be happening.

"Ardy!" he barked at the avian's silhouette behind him, almost lost in the blackness, "What the hell is this?"

"I don't know." Adrian replied, his face eerily highlighted by the light from his wrist-computer's display, "It's almost like something hacked the system, but that shouldn't be possible– "

"Then figure it out!" Malcolm cut in, "It's bad enough we got a psychic psycho rampaging aboard, we do _not_ need this crap on top of it."

"I'll check out the mainframe." Adrian said in a placating sigh.

"Chaks, go with and cover him." the ram instructed, "I need a word or two with our 'friend'."

With a pair of acknowledging nods, Chakori Adrian departed further down the central corridor, toward the ship's mainframe, leaving Malcolm alone.

No! Don't split up the team! That's where he'll get you! Listen dammit!

Ease up there, I'm not doing this alone. I'm going into the med bay, jolting him awake with a shot of adrenaline, and getting him on his feet. He knows the most about this Harrow creep, and if he's even _halfway _decent in a fight, he'll be helpful here. Holy Lyla, why the did I even let Ardy dope the guy out in the first place?

He arrived outside the med-bay with little trouble, even with the sudden darkness. Old Mal could walk the entirety of Cerberus blindfolded, a little darkness wasn't going to slow him down or get in the way.

The door to the med bay slid open, but the lights still weren't on. Someone walked out, canid by the look of his dim silhouette. It had to be the wolf, and so it was.

Wait. Something just ain't right...

"How'd you bust out of your restraints?"

It _isn't _right! That's not him! Look closer!

He... changed. It wasn't him anymore. The actual outline of the figure had altered from the wolf, to the smaller, sharper figure that belonged to the little Cerinian creep.

Without any hesitation, Malcolm fired a slew of shots from his carbine at Harrow, but nothing happened. Harrow just... disappeared.

It's an illusion! He's getting in your mind, making you see things that aren't there! Don't fall for it.

"You're screwing with my head here, aren't you." the ram observed aloud in a bitter voice.

"And it's so _easy_ to do to a washed up old goat like you." the Cerinian's voice responded. It felt more real this time, not just a voice from nowhere, but from an actual somewhere, somewhere close.

"Really?" Mal scoffed in faux fascination, "And what led you to _that _conclusion, if you don't mind me asking?"

"You're jaded, temperamental, stubborn, set in your ways." the Cerinian explained,"Your mind is about as predictable and inflexible as a stone."

He's nearby. He's trying to provoke you into doing something stupid.

No shit. Now shut up, you're creeping me out, and you're not really helping... whoever you are.

"Clearly you haven't been around me much–"

"Because your 'grumpy old captain' routine is all an act?" Harrow cut him off.

Alright, fine. You want to help, you mysterious little voice, tell me where the hell this little bluefur twink is hiding.

I don't know–

Not helping–

I... Provoke _him, _force _him _to make the first move. He's bold, he's sure of himself, and not afraid to show it. Make him show himself to you, because he will, and use that boldness against him.

Worth a shot...

"Well it's complicated." Malcolm replied with a shrug, "But I'm sure a fastidious brain-picker like yourself would've easily caught onto such paradoxical mental anomalies, right? That, or you're just trying to insult me, provoke me into a predictable response that you'd easily exploit."

"Who says I need to trick the likes of _you?_"

Harrow's voice definitely came in real, with direction, and a place. It was still dark in the corridor, but a new shape came into being from the dimness from where the Cerinian's voice spoke. That was him alright: strutting down the middle of the corridor like he owned the place, this time toting his precious weird fighting stick thing.

Blasters weren't gonna work on this creep, not the normal way, not with that cute little force-field thing his stick makes. There were other ways to deal with that though, one of which Malcolm was lifting off of his belt, and pulling the safety pin from.

"And furthermore, nobody, and I mean _nobody, _gets to call me a call me 'goat'."

* _Click_ *

He released the arming lever. The grenade was active now, and would detonate in a matter of seconds, no turning back.

"Ever."

Malcolm pitched the grenade straight at the Cerinian, who was more than ready to simply swat it away with a flourishing swing from his staff–

* _Bang!_ *

The blackened central corridor flashed for a moment with white light brighter than any star. The heavy snap noise it made kept echoing through the ship, and kept on ringing in the ears several seconds after that.

Just as the light winked out, with the shock of the flashbang still lingering, the older ram charged straight toward where Harrow was, letting his carbine hang from his shoulder by its sling. Judging by the last fading light, the Cerinian had staggered back a little, hunched down, with a hand shielding his eyes.

No mercy.

Thundering down the corridor, Malcolm passed just to the left of Harrow, shooting his hand into him, clutching the Cerinian by the throat with enough force and momentum behind the ram's running bulk to lift him off the ground. Not a moment later Malcolm pitched Harrow down, slamming him to the deck on his back with a _thud _that rang and reverberated through the corridor long afterward.

"Gotta hand it to you, pain in the rear as you are, you sure come up with some hammy lines '_I am Harrow!_'" Malcolm said half panting, half laughing as he ripped the staff weapon from the Cerinian's weakened grip and tossed it aside, "You know what else you are: _done._"

Malcom brought the carbine to bear on Harrow, and fired a spray of shots into his hapless opponent–

Nothing happened. The weapon didn't fire. The trigger clicked, but the carbine didn't respond with its torrent of blasterfire, only silence.

The Cerinian started laughing when he looked up at Malcom's baffled face, which quickly turned to rage as the ram went for another approach: using the useless firearm as a bludgeon. He jammed the carbine's buttstock down at Harrow's face, who grabbed the stock and diverted the blow past his head where it struck the deck with a _clang. _In quick response, the Cerinian twisted up and shot a thrusting kick into Malcolm's armpit, forcing him to release the carbine with a grunt as he backed away.

Harrow kicked up to his feet easy, a manic grin in his teeth, and a pair of ghostly lights igniting in his eyes.

"What the hell is this?" Malcolm demanded, "You can't be on your feet, not after the beatdown I gave you!"

The Cerinian took in a deep breath and flexed a few muscles, and let out an easy laugh, "But yet..."

The ram blinked his eyes, not believing them, and Harrow was gone.

"You fell for it, as I knew you would."

the Cerinian's voice came from another place now, the other side of the corridor, where the staff weapon lay discarded. But when Malcolm turned to look, the staff was in Harrow's hands again, spinning gently in his grip as he smiled back with that carefree grin of his.

He had just about enough of this, and it was time for it to end.

"Get your filthy voodoo fingers out of my head!" and Mal charged at the Cerinian, fueled at that moment by one singular hatred.

With Malcolm Aries bearing down on him, Harrow fired several blazing red shots from the staff, lighting both of them in blood-red flashes of fire. But when the shots found their mark, the rampaging ram ignored every single one of them, and kept right on coming. The shots stung and burned against his skin, but wasn't enough to hold him back, so focused he was on the one singular goal of destroying the little Cerinian who'd molded his mind like putty.

And for a moment, if only just a moment, there was a flash of true fear in Harrow's eyes as Malcolm came on top of him. But it was only for a moment.

Just as Malcolm swatted at the staff to knock it away, the Cerinian twisted back and away, spinning and then thrusting the sharp end of the staff at the ram's neck.

The speed of the run combined with the quick thrust, concentrated at the small point of the staff was more than enough to pierce through his throat.

There wasn't any pain, not then, but everything seemed to stop, to freeze in place at that turning moment when realization began to sink in.

After stopping in his tracks, the first thing Malcolm noticed was how awkward the first breath he took felt. Then when he couched up a mouthful of blood, not all of it came out of his mouth or nose. Some of the hot fluid ran straight from his neck, and down the gold-colored shaft that had skewered it.

He was going to die, and very soon with the amount of blood it felt like he was losing. Anything that wasn't running out or coughed up would just go down and fill the lungs, and he'd drown in his own blood, provided he didn't black out before then.

Shouldn't have sent Scott away. He'd have been handy in a fight–

No, gotta contact the others, gotta let them know–

Malcolm tried to activate the comm on his headset, but his hand was trembling, felt weak. It wouldn't go up. He tried to take a deeper breath, but was only racked by a fit of wet, sickly coughs, and more of the blood came out. My god, how much was there? It just kept coming out, and he couldn't breathe, couldn't take even one little breath without spitting up even more blood–

The Cerinian tore his staff from Malcolm's ravaged throat, and the ram's buckling, otherwise strong legs gave out underneath him. He collapsed to his knees under his own weight and quickly failing strength, forcing him to look up at Harrow like some sort of...

Well... Damn... Kinda figured it was gonna end like this some day. If only it wasn't this freaking twink that finally did it.

With one last effort, Malcolm Aries worked up a mouthful of blood and whatever else, and spit it down onto the Cerinian's exposed feet, miring that blue fur of his with the fruit of his exploits: the blood of honest folk.

And he was gone

_To think you actually believed you could help this wretch._

He gasped down a breath so great and so fast it felt like his chest would burst open, and he continued heaving more lungfuls in and out one after another. His heart beat so fast that it almost felt like a drum-roll. His fur was standing up straight on end, damp with cold sweat. He found his hands clutching at his throat, fully expecting them to be soaked in his own blood, and shocked to find them clean.

/

_He made me feel them die. He hooked my mind up with theirs; put every thought they had in my head, made me feel every scratch of pain they felt, every bit of anger, fear, frustration, and regret. Sometimes, I didn't even know who I was._

/

He was dead, he'd just had that staff stuck in there and–

These were canid hands, not his–

No, the hands were his. This was _his _body, not the other's.

His eyes were working again. He was back in the med bay, sprawled on the ground

"What are you doing this for?"

_Figure it out._

Gotta figure it out.

No one should be able to hack into Cerberus, no one, and certainly not the Cerinian.

Adrian stood at the mainframe's main interface terminal with Chakori at his back while he did everything in his power to solve this puzzle. The self-diagnostics programs were already slogging through the computer systems, but he suspected that they wouldn't find anything. There didn't seem to be any immediate telltale signs of a worm or virus in the system, no tweaked coding –none that he didn't do himself at least– no traces of phantom programing, and all the interface points looked clean; no signs of a forced entry.

It didn't make any sense. It was almost as if–

His thoughts were jostled by a noise from outside, a dull _thud _carried through the bulkheads.

Chakori brought her weapon up, scanning her surroundings for any sign of trouble, while Adrian went to bring up a series of internal surveillance feeds into the mainframe terminal. It didn't respond though, not like it should have. It just displayed the "processing" icon, thinking, waiting.

This wasn't right.

"Mal?" the avian asked over the comm, "Mal what's going on out there?"

No answer, just silent nothing.

"I'll go check on him." Chakori told him in the cold, calculated, hauntingly level voice she used when she meant business. Without another word, the leopardess slunk silently out of the mainframe and into the corridor, assault rifle raised and ready.

Adrian considered protesting, keeping everyone together, but ultimately decided against it. If Harrow was going to set traps, pick them off one by one, Then let him think he has that advantage. Let him believe he's got the upper hand, only to blunder into a counter trap.

The avian turned on and attached a flashlight under the barrel of his shotgun, then reached into one of the many pockets of his coat and pulled out a small handful of specialty hand-packed shotgun shells, which he began to load into his combat shotgun. They were flechette cartridges, bundles of little razor blades packed into standard shotgun casing. The things they did when that kind of shot hit, when the swarm of biting, piercing, slicing blades met flesh, were among the most gruesome things that could come out of a firearm: like filleting a face with a dozen deep-cutting knife slashes in an instant. Adrian had been waiting for an especially sick bastard who deserved that ind of fate, and this Harrow character certainly earned it.

He took his mind off the computers, off the technology. That's where he'd want him to be thinking, to distract him, to sneak up on him unawares. That's not going to happen. There's only one way in or out of the mainframe, and if the Cerinian creep wanted in, he'd have to pull something better than parlor tricks to get past.

"I'll admit I'm impressed." Adrian said aloud, knowing full well that Harrow would be able to hear him, wherever he was, "What did you do?"

"It's simple, really." The Cerinian's voice came through on his comm headset of all places. Whether he was actually connected or just screwing with Adrian's mind wasn't clear though, "These machines –these _computer_ systems– they communicate only in the simplest absolutes. There is no nuance to them the way mind is, no subtleties to puzzle over. Once you learn the language they speak, the codes, the patterns of such tiny pulses, the machines will obey orders without question. They do not ask why, or who; they simply do."

"Any hacker worth their bits knows that." the avian retorted while he kept his eyes looking for any movement, scanning the entrance with the light he shone into the dark, "What makes you so special?"

"Why don't you tell me?" Harrow mocked back, "You've already seen it, you already know: I can control this vessel now just as easily as you can."

That's when it hit him.

"You don't mean–"

/

"_Wait, are you saying he hacked into Cerberus's systems?"_

"_Sort of, but it's not like that. He has a way to use his... 'psychic mojo' to interact with technology directly."_

"_How does he do it?"_

"_I don't know, he doesn't tell anyone his secrets. All I know is that he's figured out a way to... interfere with tech, to use his Cerinian hocus pocus to screw with electronics, manipulate them, give false positives, that sort of thing. That's how he was able to sneak aboard and remain undetected, even with security feeds."_

/

Without wasting a second, Adrian scrambled in the command to activate the Lethe procedure, to put the ship to sleep, and Cerberus obliged. The whir and hum of computer machinery that normally dominated the mainframe went quiet. The thrum and gentle vibrations of the engines and power plant died out. The ship became so quiet, so suddenly, like no other sound would be heard again.

"What did you do?" Harrow's voice was real now, not some detached bystander inside the headset speaker, "The patterns, they've changed, gone silent."

"I took away the one advantage you had." Adrian answered, "You don't have control anymore, do you?"

"And you believe that's my only advantage?" The Cerinian stepped through the entrance into the light, staff in-hand.

"It's the only one that matters."

* _Boom! _*

He fired a shell full of flechette where Harrow stood, but he'd already moved aside. He didn't vanish and 'reappear' like last time, just moved quicker, or seemed like it.

The Cerinian had already fired back a volley of fire-like shots from his staff, and Adrian had only just barely enough time to duck around one of the server towers, into the tight guts of the mainframe.

This was the most ideal situation under the circumstances: force Harrow into the tight places, into a shooting gallery with nowhere to hide. Every corner he turned, he pointed back, ready to blast the Cerinian full of flechettes when he made his move. The two of them exchanged fire at almost every opportunity, but both were out of the way before either hit their mark...

The deadly game of cat/mouse was expending more shells than it should be. At some point, he'd have to find an opportunity to reload, or find another option–

Time's up. This last avenue was a corner, and the magazine had just emptied. Adrian fished another fistful of shells from his pocket to replenish the weapon, but it was too late. The Cerinian had already turned the last corner, staff at the ready.

"Stop!" Adrian commanded.

He had one last ace up his sleeve, and now was the time to use it.

"You're not going kill me." the avian tech stated this as fact, "I've got the only means to reverse what I did; to wake up the ship. You kill me, ad it's gone. This ship will be nothing but a drifting hulk, and you'll be trapped aboard with no means to communicate, or escape."

He still had the pistol on his belt, hiding inside the coat. He'd just need a moment of distraction...

"What makes you think I care?" and a blizzard of blazing blood-red shots screamed from the staff into Adrian.

The first one struck, and burned in such a scorching pain, as if he'd been jabbed in the face with a hot soldering iron. The next one blinded him, winking his sight out in a burning blaze of red and white. The shots kept right on coming, like a torrent of jagged, white-hot daggers, each one hotter and more painful than the last. It kept building on top of itself, and it felt as if his head had burst into flame.

There was nothing left now but the pain. Adrian Crane had lost all awareness of everything, of where he was, who he was, what was happening. His entire existence was defined by the agony tearing him apart, and punctuated by the guttural, bone-wracking cry the reflexes of his collapsing mind demanded he scream.

But then his lungs ran out of air, and those very same reflexes demanded that he take a breath.

His sight returned with his breath. He'd covered his face with his hands, trembling hands, canid hands.

That wasn't him, he was _here, _but the pain stayed, lingering like an echo, a ringing bell that wouldn't go away. No matter how distant it seemed, it still stung, still cut at him, still burned at him.

/

"_Are you okay? You're shaking."_

"_The telling makes me... 'remember', sometimes more vividly than I'd like to. I still have flashes sometimes, of their last thoughts, their dying agonies. They may be dead, but can still feel them dying."_

"_We can take a break if you need–"_

"_No. You wanted to hear my story and goddammit, I'm going to tell it."_

"_Tell me what happened next. Tell me about Chakori."_

"_She's a fighter, but she's so much more too..."_

/

She ran.

Only moments after she discovered Malcolm's still warm body did the muffled shotgun blast ring out, answered quickly by the blazing screeches of Harrow's weapon. And so she ran through Cerberus's corridors, with only her breath, her thundering heartbeat, and the ever-nearing clamor of combat to beak Lethe's silence. It wasn't an especially large ship, only a frigate, but the distance between the med bay and mainframe couldn't have felt longer, and the time to travel between them couldn't have felt more rushed.

She ran, but she wasn't fast enough.

Adrian's dying screams, his wail of pain, stopped her dead in her tracks, and she was only a few feet from the mainframe.

Harrow had killed him. That arrogant, bloodthirsty showoff had snuffed out another one of the closest, longest running friends Chakori ever had.

Focus.

She could have broken down. She could have given up. She could have succumbed to the despair, the rage, the grief that her instincts implored. by all rights she'd earned the chance to; and in some ways, she did.

Balance.

It was something of a paradox as these things often are: to immerse yourself in the emotions, but to maintain control of them, to allow the emotions to fuel your actions, your resolve, but to never lose sight of the goal, to keep all that pain and anguish harnessed and contained.

Control.

Chakori edged to the wall of the corridor, to the edge of the jammed-open door of the mainframe, drew her heavy, forward deflected knife from its scabbard. It rested there easily, as if it were a natural extension of her hand.

There was a set of quiet footsteps, emerging from the mainframe. The Cerinian probably already knew she was there, was aware of her state of mind, and was just as ready for the encounter. Momnets later, Harrow stepped out into the corridor, reeking of death. It was dark, and he was little more than a silhouette, but she didn't need to see him to know where he was, or predict his actions.

A jagged spike of rage flared up within her upon seeing the Cerinian. It wasn't ordinary rage though, it was rage fueled by need: the need to avenge Malcolm and Adrian, to make their needless sacrifices not be in-vain, for her to make up for recent shortfalls. It all boiled down to a need to destroy the one called 'Harrow', and it threatened to consumer her, to overwhelm all the discipline that she'd made her norm...

Focus. Balance. Control.

Rage and Discipline can work together, as one. Just as fire powers the engine, so too does rage give power to martial expertise, to reflexes, and refine discipline. Focused on her task, and balanced in a tranquil fury, Chakori took control and assumed a fighting stance...

"I do not fear you."

The Cerinian didn't even turn to look at her. He just gave a satisfied nod as he responded, "Good."

It wasn't clear who struck the first blow between them, but the battle started fast, and didn't let up.

Every move, every strike, every maneuver flowed straight into the next. There were no more lines between offense and defense, between thought and action. The action simply happened in direct response the other's action...

In the heat and intensity of single combat, Chakori's rage refined and crystallized into a refusal. She refused to be defeated, refused to die, refused to let Harrow get away with it...

/

"_I... can't remember anything after that, not before I blacked out. He... cut me out of the loop."_

/

It was quiet when he came to, so hauntingly quiet, and dark. There was a scent of death lingering, a mingling of raw and burnt.

He had to survive.

So he stood himself up on weary feet, and started through...

/

"_I spent the next few hours, days, working to survive, refusing to die... Those where the last thoughts in my head before I blacked out: Chakori's determination, her resolve to not be defeated, to not die. Fast forward a little later, when it cooled off and I was almost freezing to death, and that's how you found me."_

"_You know, I'm just throwing out speculation here, but it almost seems like, in some weird perverted way, Harrow may have saved your life. He made you feel Chakori's thoughts just like everyone else, with the intent to make you feel her die, but she didn't play along, and her determination leeched into you. He accidentally 'imprinted' that unyielding determination to survive, and so you have."_

"_Now dope me."_

"_What?"_

"_Knock me out. You're stocked with tranquilizers and such. Use them on me."_

"_Why?"_

"_Do you know what it's like to constantly relive someone else's dying moments in your dreams? Do you know what it's like to take someone else's thoughts into you as your own? You start thinking you're them, you lose track of who you really are for a moment... I want them out of my head, all of them... I... I want it to end. Can you do that?"_

"_..."_

"_Can you?"_

"_... I can't promise a cure, but I will see what can be done to help."_

/

* * *

><p><em>See a person's methods. Observe his motives. Examine that in which he rests. How can a person conceal his character? <em>

-Confucius-

* * *

><p>

Serge Noire arrived aboard Cerberus with Rachelle Cooney shortly after. For the most part it was a fairly dull event, and most things went precisely as expected. Serge didn't say much, but did briefly reminisce with a short, "it has been some time." He walked Cerberus's dimmed corridors as if walking down a forgotten alley of memory lane. It was a subtle shift, but for Serge, even subtle shifts were as different as night and day.

He gained access to Cerberus's mainframe with no trouble, reactivated the systems, arousing the ship from its deep and troubled slumber, making it ready to ride proud once more. Rachelle plugged in, downloaded everything she needed –namely: the missing shuttles tracking beacon parameters, data collected from the smart bug, as well as any records that might be of use. When it was all done, she wiped the ship's storage files as clean as she could make it, just in case.

All the while, Serge simply watched, or listened, or muttered something under his breath while he surveyed the damage caused by the battle: the shattered server units, warped casings, frayed electronics and other such. It was of little consequence, given the automated redundancy built into these kinds of units: if you break one part, the suite automatically reroutes the data stream through to an undamaged sector. In essence, one would have to disrupt the _entire_ system to cripple it beyond repair.

With the tracking beacon parameters, it should be easy enough to locate the missing shuttle, and hopefully provide a much needed lead on a trail that was running close to cold.

But, only _most_ things went as expected.

Rick Cooney stopped by the mainframe with Wiley, just before they were about to depart Cerberus for good.

The Cooneys hadn't mentioned Wiley or Harrow to Serge, only that Cerberus was useless while Lethe was engaged. Even so, the twins had their suspicions that Noire knew more than he let on, or was at least curious enough to investigate for himself. It was the game of secrets in its truest form: how much does he know? How much does he know we know? How much is he choosing to let on? Questions, but too few answers.

One way Rick had decided to probe for answers was to bring the wolf who let himself be known as 'Wiley' into Serge's sight, to let the shadowy patriarch become aware of the troubled renegade, and observe his reaction.

The hunch: Serge was a teacher– a trainer of assassins, hitmen, spies, and black market dirty-work doers of the highest caliber. The thing about teachers though is that they have patterns, traces of their methods that pass through to their students. Serge's kind were few: enough so that picking up on patterns and sorting them according to known instructor's methods was reasonably easy. Wiley's tactics, his strategic choices, his careful concealment, his ruthless decisiveness and merciless execution, while a little unrefined, pulled itself toward this hunch.

And so Rick Cooney entered Cerberus's mainframe with Wiley in tow, just as Rachelle was wrapping up her part of the operation.

When Serge and Wiley met, there was a reaction.

Wiley flinched, puzzled. He recognized Serge, that much was certain as he eyed the older, dark-furred canid with a certain familiarity. It was a mixture of surprise, puzzlement, a trace of fear, and strong underpinnings of reverence. 'What is he doing here?' he was no doubt thinking. 'What was this all about? What ind of crap did Rick pull?'

Serge however had a markedly different response. He paused, eyebrow raised in curiosity, sharp eyes scrutinizing every inch of the pale wolf in a series of glances, and finger stroking his chin in thought, complete with his trademark, "Hm..."

A long, awkward silence permeated the mainframe chamber then, with both Rick and Rachelle Cooney looking on, waiting for the next action.

After careful mental calculations amidst the awkwardness, almost reveling in it as he considered the stakes and the play-field of that ubiquitous deadly game of secrets, Serge made his play.

He spoke to Wiley, walking right up to him, but made absolutely sure that the Cooneys could hear, "There is an older vulpine woman: she lives in Port Seyid, Zoness, north district, Sol Nascente apartments, unit number 513."

"Excuse me?" the wolf replied, even more puzzled than before, and sparking closer interest from the Cooneys.

"Her name is Cassandra Alexi," Serge explained, "and she might be able to help with your... troublesome Cerinian friend."

Rachelle stepped in at hearing this, drawn in by Serge's revelation, "I never said anything about a Cerinian–"

"Hm." He cocked his head to the side, returning Rachelle's prying gaze with a tiny knowing smirk, "I'd say more, but she will tell you more than I."

It was difficult to tell exactly how much he'd kept to himself, being the sort that habitually plays close to the chest, but there was enough sincerity in there. He knew about Harrow and what he could do, likely knew about the Amity attack, and obviously knew the fate of the Cerberus crew. There was one inflection that seeped through his flinty voice, one imperfection: a small twinge of anger, of disdain, the need for revenge.

In Rick's mind, the scenario revealed itself: Harrow wronged Serge Noire, betrayed him somehow– and then it clicked into place. Skilled and talented as he was, Harrow didn't learn how to do most of those things on his own, he was _taught_ by someone. The methods of Harrow described: they were somewhat exotic simply by his nature, but infused with a set of method-patterns that Rick recognized in both Wiley, and in Serge himself–

Serge must have seen traces of these thoughts happening in Rick, to whom he nodded and said, "You know what you need to do."

"I'll see that it's done." Rick responded with a cool head, giving Serge the same knowing nod.

-To be Continued-

Author Notes:

Whew... This was, for me, the most painful and most difficult chapter I have written in recent memory.

I hope you can understand: I killed –brutally murdered– OCs that I very easily could have created their own entire spin-off arc for. I have invested that much effort into each of their characters, to give them depth, to give them life. Killing them off, and in the visceral way that happens here, takes a lot out of me; more than I expected it would. It's almost like I'm killing my own kids.

Just needed to unload that, thanks for bearing with me.

I know these later chapters have been brutal, but I promise the next chapter will be an easier, breather chapter. Believe me, I'll need it at least as much as you.


	13. Chasing Shadows

This one is a little on the shorter side, and a bit of a filler chapter, or more like a buffer between other elements going on in the story right now. I'm trying to control the pace. Anyway, that's enough from me. Read and enjoy!

**魂魄を追いかけて****  
><strong>_**Chasing Shadows**_

\

* * *

><p>

The days that followed the return to Cerberus, to the ghost ship of the damned... to call it "awkward" would be putting it far too lightly.

Phoenix was right about one thing: he was fired. Caius Company had terminated James McCloud's contract faster than a witty remark comes out of a deadpan snarker. There wasn't a whole lot of fuss about it; no two weeks notice, no messy negotiations, no needlessly verbose discharge letter, just a simple impersonal message that told McCloud that he no longer worked for Caius Company, and was no longer entitled to any benefits or obligations that entailed. That was it, nothing more, an otherwise promising career in private sector soldiery cut off from the company like an infected limb. In hindsight though, a career in Caius Company might not have been that promising in the first place if this was how they treat their people.

In any case, it was over now. James McCloud was out of work, and that was the least of his problems.

Mercenaries die: it's a simple fact of mercenary work. People who fight, shoot, kill for others to make their livelihood will inevitably, sooner or later, end up looking down the business end of someone else's gun barrel. That's not what made the situation awkward though. This was different. This was bigger than a simple escort job gone awry, and it didn't take a great leap of logic to hazard a guess why: the Cerinian.

It was a tough job to begin with, but everything –save for the loss of the squad– had been working out fairly smoothly. By all accounts, it was a success, even if only barely. Then 'Harrow' worked his damned Cerinian shenanigans. No one James knew of had gone up against any of those strange things, those... mind-screws. There was no known counter-strategy, and no time to think up one on the spot in he moment. War certainly could be hell, but the stuff of nightmares that 'Harrow' could pull off was never supposed to be as real as it was.

Speaking of nightmares, James still had some of them: burned alive in the cockpit of the Tapatra-27 fighter, belittled by Captain Sobak Soyuz, taunted by a staff-swirling Cerinian maniac; the usual. He was beginning not necessarily to get used to them, but more like become familiar with them. There were other dreams too now though, some of them involved a raging black terrier out for blood who hacked the world to pieces, or a white wolf who could care less about anything. But on top of all this was one dream, not a nightmare, that he was alright with having. It was a beautiful vixen, bright copper fur and dazzling green eyes, whose calm, compassionate gaze and sweet voice was the only thing in his head that wasn't crap. Or rather, it was the only thing in his head not crap with enough power to stand up against everything else. She wouldn't leave; her face, her voice, her name kept bouncing back into his thoughts, trying so very hard to distract him from all of those other worries that dragged him down: Vixy.

This great uneasiness defined Jame's days for a time, constantly obsessing over people he barely knew, and the ones he did know well had dropped from his thoughts entirely. He didn't want to feel this way, he'd already beat himself up over the failures, already cursed fate, but he still felt miserable nonetheless. The worst part was the inaction, the doing of nothing, it felt like treading water; kicking to stay afloat, but going nowhere. Part of him wondered how just long he could keep this up before he drowned...

Lucky for him that Peppy Hare was there for the worst of it, helping him through, keeping an eye on him. Peppy might not have been there aboard the Amity, or Cerberus when it still functioned; didn't see everything fall apart around him while he watched helpless, didn't feel the pain for himself, but maybe that was for the best. Someone under the same roof as James ought to be the sane one, and it was a good fit for Peppy. It was that stubborn hare's belief that by going through the motions of life –by getting out of bed in the morning, eating the breakfast, doing the smalltalk, taking care of the little things– one can stay alive. It was the thought that if you condition your body to reflexively keep on living, than like any conditioned response, the mind will follow suit accordingly.

Well, that's a pleasant thought at least.

When he and Peppy finally got the call to go back out there, to go do some work, he was most of all relieved. It meant he had something new to focus on, something to get up and get ready for, something he could put his skills to work for. He was beginning to realize, for himself at least, that doing anything at all was better than sitting and doing nothing.

\

* * *

><p>

James McCloud and Peppy Hare stepped into Ewan's pub amidst the hubbub of the evening rush. The main space was alive with the conversations between the patrons, most of them enjoying good food, good drink and good company. The warm air was thick with the aromas of several appetizing meals mingling with a slight tinge of alcohol, among others.

They weren't there to enjoy the pleasantries though, not as their first priority at least. This was where they were supposed to meet Rachelle, Pigma and Scott for the job.

"Any idea where to find them?" James asked. His voice was more lively now at least, and not quite the cold monotone it had been for a while; good sign.

"Ah, well, Rachelle wasn't any more specific than _'meet at Ewan's', _at this time. But don't you worry Jimmy, they'll be here..." Peppy looked around the busy pub, second thoughts slipping through, "somewhere–"

"Oi, you two there!" the host, an older brown terrier canid, approached them through the busy pub, dodging between patrons as he asked, "McCloud, Hare?"

"Yep, that's us." Peppy answered with a nod.

"Your friends are waiting on you; back room, mates. Right this way."

The host led them through the thick of the pub's activity, past the bar where a few were getting a little tipsy. Soon they were in a small, quiet back room, modestly furnished, and with three familiar occupants sitting around a table waiting for them: Rachelle, Pigma, and Scott.

If James thought he was a little worse for wear, Scott was... something else. There's the thousand yard stare which shell-shocked veterans sometimes adopt that everyone's heard about: that blank, ghostly stare written about in novels, shown in the movies. That was not Scott. The dark terrier's face instead seemed to be locked in a permanent, razor sharp scowl, glaring straight forward as if to drill a hole through the wall opposite him.

As soon as the host left them, James had to ask, "Scott? You doing okay?"

He didn't answer. He just gave the fox a quick glance, and went right back to glaring.

"He hasn't been drinking, has he?" Peppy asked to the others offhand.

At this, Scott rolled his eyes and let out a grumbling sigh.

"Uh, no, actually." Pigma supplied, looking at Peppy with something like a sneer. It wasn't clear if he was just being defensive, or sarcastic, or both. "He hasn't touched a drop of anything stronger than _ice-water_ since he started coming here–"

"Stow it." Scott cut him off with a growl.

"He's fine, and we have more important things on the table anyway." Rachelle insisted, shooting stern looks between Peppy and Pigma, "So why don't you take a seat and we'll get started."

Once Peppy and James were seated, Rachelle wasted no time getting down to business.

"The job is simple:" she began, "We've tracked the shuttle Charon from Cerberus to the Setarea desert, on Titania. It's still there right now, and its beacon transmitting as we speak. The shuttle's blackbox recorder should be in there, and still functioning as far as we know. If Harrow made any calls for a lift, it'll be logged there. Whatever occurred during the trip there will be recorded there. If there's any trace of what might've happened to Chakori, it'll be there. So we go there, and find out anything we can."

"I've got a feeling it ain't as simple as that. There's a lot here that ain't adding up." Peppy figured, "Like: why set it down in the middle of the desert, and not a settlement or something?"

"Quietly ditch it for a new ride, of course." Pigma answered easily.

"Yeah okay, so why the hell is the tracking signal still transmitting?" Peppy questioned, still very skeptical, "If this guy wanted to cover his tracks, he should've blown the shuttle to teeny tiny pieces after ditching it for his new ride."

"I don't think your friend Harrow is trying to cover his tracks at all. He's deliberately leaving a trail of bread crumbs, of bait. And that's why I'm not going out there all by myself." Rachelle explained, looking around the table, dropping the obvious hint.

"Right, great, so we're springing a goddamn booby trap." the hare reiterated, sounding a little uncomfortable.

"Hell, we're not springing it." Pigma corrected, giving Peppy a little punch on the shoulder, "We're busting it up!"

"So what's his angle?" James asked Rachelle, much more interested, "Why would he lead us on a chase?"

"It's only a guess for now, but I'm pretty sure he wants to know who's tracking him, wants to know exactly what he's up against, and doesn't want to draw any unwanted attention finding out." Rachelle answered, and continued explaining, "Combing through a whole mess of unreliable contacts trying to find out who's tailing you attracts unnecessary attention, tips off nosy opportunists, and can make you look desperate. So this Harrow guy saves himself the trouble and lures his pursuers close enough for a good look. And if he's the arrogant, fight-happy bastard I've heard so much about, then he just might try to snuff his tracks out there, along with whoever's on his trail."

"Hmph, let him try." the dark terrier scoffed, but with a grim timbre to his voice, and a smoldering fire in his eyes, "I'm in."

"I'm in if Scott's in." Pigma chimed.

"So what are we waiting for?" James asked, much more lively now, determined, "Let's do this."

"Yeah, sure, what the hell." Peppy agreed, reluctantly, while he fidgeted looking down at his hands, "Let's go tag-and-bag us a crazy homicidal psychic psychopath, huh?"

James placed a hand on the hare's shoulder, "Hey, Peppy."

"What?"

"Relax." James suggested, much more relaxed than he'd been, "You're making me nervous."

"Well now, I see you've made it back to your usual cocky self–"

"Couldn't have made it here without you Peppy, you stubborn bastard–"

"Complete with your infamous cocktail of fake ass-kissing and sarcasm..." he chuckled, and added, "He does this, you know, _all the time_."

"Now that is just _not_ true."James exclaimed as he threw up his arms in a fit of faux-outrage, "You're exaggerating."

"Maybe, but not by much." Peppy mumbled, just loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Alright boys, break it up." Rachelle butted in, "As entertaining as the comedy act is, I'm going to have to suggest that you cut it short. The sooner we start the prep-work, the sooner we can get out there."

\

* * *

><p>

"You sure about this?" Wiley asked.

Rick Cooney and he made it to the busy city of Port Seyid on Zoness easily enough, found the fairly ordinary Sol Nascente apartment building in the northern district, and got to the entrance of unit 513 with no trouble– well, no trouble beyond the usual nuisances that is.

"Well,_ are _you sure about this?" an all too familiar voice asked.

Rick looked to his side, where his habitually hallucinated doppelgänger had just materialized right next to the white wolf 'Wiley', giving a gleeful smirk to his corporeal counterpart.

"It's a lead, and I'm following it." the raccoon answered as he reached up and activated the apartment's door-chime.

"No, of _course_ you're not sure, but you're doing it anyway." Rick's double sassed back, his every word dripping with sarcasm, "It's one of those funny hunch things, not that you'd tell _him _about that anyway."

Of all the times to butt in and taunt, it just _had _to be when meeting up with a possible contact, with Wiley tagging along. Rick wanted nothing more than to tell that part of himself off, but that'd mean trying to explain to Wiley why he was talking to the air.

The apartment door soon slid open, and thank goodness for that. It meant something else to focus on, something to distract Rick from himself.

On the other side of the door was, just as Serge had informed, an older or mid-aged vulpine woman. She looked like she'd be in the 50 to 60 year range, aged gracefully, with a fur pattern of uneven dark gray. She wore a long-sleeved wrap dress than hung over her knees, the fabric of which was a deep blue, but with highlighted at the edges with intricate, exotic patterns.

"Cassandra Alexi?" Rick asked, putting on his best polite visitor act.

"Yes?" the vixen confirmed and questioned in a single word.

She seemed awfully calm to have new arrivals, not concerned, or worried, or suspicious as she had every right to be, but intrigued, interested, almost as if she were expecting them. It crossed Rick's mind that Serge might have informed her of their coming, but that probably wouldn't matter too much.

"I am Richard Cooney, and this is Wiley." he pointed out the Wolf next to him.

"I see..." Cassandra said with a thoughtful nod. She definitely seemed far more clever than she was letting on, and her next action all but confirmed it, "And what about your other friend over there?" she inquired, looking straight at Rick's suddenly baffled doppelgänger.

"Who?" Rick blurted as a shocked, bewildered expression struck his face.

"Me?" the double said in exactly the same tone, with the exact same expression.

"What are you talking about, lady?" Wiley asked, looking where she indicated, but not seeing anything but the wall, "There's nobody there."

"Hmm..." Cassandra stepped into the hallway, scrutinizing the confused wolf with intense, thinking eyes before instructing him, "Close your eyes."

"I don't see what this has–"

"Close them, and you will see." she insisted.

Uneasy, Wiley looked over to Rick, looking for some kind of support in the awkward situation. After a moment, Rick gave him a slow nod, silently telling Wiley to let the lady do whatever it is she's going to do.

Once he complied, reluctantly, Cassandra reached a hand up and lightly tapped the wolf on his forehead, and instructed, "Now open your eyes, and look again."

He did, and he saw the doppelgänger that Rick used to think only he could see, "Rick?"

"Uh... Hi?" the double responded with an awkward wave.

Wiley flinched back, bumping into the actual Rick Cooney in the process, "Holy... Rick, who the hell is _this?_"

"That, Makita, is his shadow," Cassandra answered, giving the so-called 'shadow' a disapproving look, "and a rather impolite shadow I might add."

"How do you know my name?" Wiley demanded, or Makita as he'd been named.

"It's because you're Cerinian." Rick deduced, working very hard to cover his discomfort.

Cassandra showed them her arm, and ran her fingers through the fur. On close inspection, they could see the hairs were all blue at the roots. She'd dyed her fur gray.

"No, hell no, we can't be here..." the wolf who's identity was in question muttered, shaking his head, then snapped back at Cassandra, "I won't let your kind screw with my head anymore, _ever._"

"And that can be made true, with my help. That is why you are here, yes?" she replied, and calmly added, "Please, come inside. It seems we have much to discuss."


	14. Chasing Shadows Part II

Well... Damn.

This was one of the toughest writer's blocks I've ever had the misfortune to crash into. I can still hardly believe it took me this long to get the chapter out, even though I _knew _what I was going to write, what I had in my head. Still... ugh... Brain pooped out. Need mental break.

Hope you enjoy this latest chapter, and find it interesting, and all that. I love hearing back from you too, no matter what you got!

Shut up, me! Let them read the darned thing already!

Okay! Fine! Here we go then:

**魂魄を追いかけて****、番目の本**

_**Chasing Shadows  
>Part II<strong>_

On her invitation, Rick Cooney and Wiley entered Cassandra's apartment.

The walls were adorned with arts and ornaments from, or at least inspired by, many different and varying Lylatin cultures; Fortunan, Katinan, Aquasi, even obscure Cornerian, and several more that Rick recognized, as well as several he didn't. The space smelled of a gentle incense, and some other fragrant scents from the kitchen. It all gave the impression of an eclectic, new age aesthetic.

She'd be considered an eccentric here, an oddity, but not entirely out of place. Dense urban areas like Port Seyid tend to be more or less tolerant of eclectic eccentrics, who can simply fade back into the background noise. The act would've certainly helped her cover, living as an incognito Cerinian; 'Cassandra' probably wasn't even her real name. Even if it was supposed to be a cover, Part of Rick couldn't help but think she may have relished in some of what she collected, learned about. If her curiosity about Lylat was as strong s some Lylatins' curiosity about Cerinia, then it might even be motivation for why she left her homeworld in the first place.

Cassandra directed her guests to a sitting room area. It had the usual amenities, but they were just a little different. The couch however had a quilt or fabric covering overtop with a woven pattern; might've been Fortunan. The coffee table didn't quite look like a coffee table, more like a slice of polished tree trunk with legs.

"Can I get you two something?" Cassandra offered, doing her part as the polite host, "Tea?" That would be the rich, just a little bit bitter aroma from the kitchen.

"Yes, thank you." Rick accepted with a nod as he sat down on the couch. Wiley soon followed next to him, or maybe it was Makita, they'd have to decide which to use later.

"I'll be right back." and the older Cerinian went to the apartment's kitchen, leaving her two guests alone.

The white wolf wasn't doing well. He sat hunched forward on the couch, looking down at his fidgeting hands. He didn't want to be here.

"What's wrong?" It was a redundant question, Rick knew _exactly _what was wrong. He just wanted to get him talking, and hopefully ease his nerves a bit.

"I felt her." Wiley told him, still staring through his hands, at his feet, into the floor, "She was in my head, just like Harrow."

"You're gonna be fine." the raccoon assured, as much to Wiley as to himself.

"_Me? _What about you, and your... _shadow_ thing?" The wolf asked as he looked up, and glanced around the room, "Where'd he go? He was here just a second ago."

Rick was about to say something, not sure what, but something, when Cassandra's voice cut in.

"He is not real..." She'd returned, carrying a small tray filled with three steaming mugs with her, which she set down on the coffee table in front of Rick and Wiley, "At least, not in a physical flesh-and-blood reality, since he exists only in Mr. Cooney's mind. You were able to see him when I briefly linked your minds together: you saw what he saw, even that which wasn't strictly 'real'."

"But was that little show really necessary?" Rick asked her, lifting one of the mugs.

"Maybe not, but maybe it will help." Cassandra answered with a small shrug, and took a seat opposite the other two, "If nothing else, I supposed it would be rude to keep my awareness of it secret from you." She took one of the mugs for herself, peering up at Rick with a gaze that seemed to see right through him, "And speaking of secrets, I suppose you are not here simply to keep an eccentric woman company, hm?"

Might as well play this straight.

"Are you familiar with a certain Cerinian known as 'Harrow'?" Rick reached into a pocket and produced a printed image of Harrow, which he handed to Cassandra.

Her brow dropped when she saw the picture. She let out a long, quiet sigh, and took a small drink of the tea in her hand. She knew Harrow, or at least knew _of _him, and responded, "You mean Haran, his name is Haran. 'Harrow' is nothing more than a moniker he adopted when..." she stopped short, looking back and forth between the wolf and raccoon, "Serge sent you, didn't he?"

"Sort of, but I don't work for him." Rick insisted, "My intentions are my own."

"Just as his intentions are _his._" Cassandra replied with furrowing brow and drilling eyes, "I don't believe Serge would have told you about me if he didn't stand to gain from it. He's incredibly guarded, that one."

"How do you and Serge know each other?" Cooney inquired.

"He came to me, much like you have, seeking answers, seeking a means to control or resist the influence of the Gift."

"The gift?" Wiley asked, confused.

"It is what we call our powers, our abilities..." the Cerinian trailed off, quietly scrutinizing the two others. "Before I agree to anything more, I would ask that you tell me why you seek these answers, what you intend to do with them."

"Can't you just dig into our minds and find out?" Wiley asked. [add more?]

"That would be... impolite, and it's not as easy as that." Cassandra answered, "No, I would prefer to know your reasons in your own words."

Rick's personal comm buzzed in his pocket, announcing the incoming call. He dug the little handheld device out and checked it: it was from LCI Operations. Of all the times, they just had to pick _now _to send him a jingle and touch 't they have waited a little while, or made the call earlier?

He'd like nothing more than to silence it and keep the conversation with Casandra going, but he'd have to answer it. If he didn't, the supervisors at HQ might think he's in distress, start worrying, start taking action, and the whole situation could turn into a big messy pile of awkward.

Holding down an irritated grumble, Rick got up from the couch, insistent buzzing comm in hand, while both Cassandra and Wiley stared at him with curious, slightly quizzical looks. Cooney responded to that with the annoyed, almost apologetic, "Excuse me, but I need to take this."

He left the sitting room area, heading into the apartment's deserted kitchen instead. Even without looking back, Rick could almost feel Wiley's discomfort explode, being left alone with another Cerinian after his experience aboard Cerberus. Maybe it'll be good for him, or maybe not; put that on the shelf for now.

Finally, Rick accepted the call, held the comm up, and spoke into it in his practiced 'calm tone', "Now really isn't a good time. I'm meeting with a contact."

"Director Hawking would like to speak with you," a dry monotone voice replied from the comm's speaker, "personally."

The annoyance and irritation Rick had been suppressing evaporated almost instantly. In its place rose a certain uneasy concern. The Director didn't normally intervene in ongoing operations, let alone directly to a field operative.

"Okay." Rick said in a flat monotone of his own.

"Richard." an older, authoritative woman's voice greeted.

"Director Hawking." the raccoon responded in kind, waiting.

"I've reviewed the reports you've sent us on Plowshare." "It's... interesting. It's troubling too, of course, but very interesting nonetheless."

"I hope you don't mind me being a little terse here." Rick told her, "I was meeting with an important contact when I got this call, and I'd like to get back to it as soon as I can."

"I'll be brief then." Hawking responded. She understood the dilemma's of a field agent, and balanced it with the needs of management; short and to the point, "I'm making the capture of this Harrow character your utmost priority. If that isn't feasible, which it may not be given what you've learned, then eliminate him. He's proven to be a far more dangerous and insidious threat than we originally believed, and he has more than his share of blood on his hands to answer for. If that isn't feasible either, then track him, observe him, learn as much from and about him as you can, so that he may be dealt with as soon as possible."

"Got it." Rick acknowledged, holding in a sigh of relief.

The Director could've called and given any number of odd, unusual or unorthodox orders, but Rick had already been a few steps ahead of administration, as Rachelle and the others had already been sent after that shuttle with pretty much the same mission. Granted, it was a gamble to send them out before the data-punchers had a chance to juggle it, before administration had time to do administering, but it was a safe bet what HQ would make of the situation, and it once again seemed to have paid out.

"I'll leave you to it." Hawking said with a terse note of finality.

"Hold on..." Rick snagged the moment before it got away, "Before I go, who in the agency I can contact for more information about Cerinians, anyone who's looked into this at all?"

"Well, I don't mean to be a damper on the situation Richard, but right now, that person would be _you._"

"You mean to tell me that _no one_ has investigated how to deal with Cerinian psychic shenanigans?"

"No one in this Agency." Hawking confirmed, "The Cerinians have always been remarkably reserved, well behaved, never a major threat before now. The need for a contingency on them simply wasn't there, not when we've had more immediate problems to occupy our time, attention, and funds–"

The comm buzzed against Rick's ear, making him flinch a moment. It was another call, which he put on hold for a moment, "I've got to go. There's another call coming in from one of my contacts."

"You certainly are a busy one." Hawking remarked, "We'll comb through our backlogs and old contacts here, see if we can't dig up something to assist you. Otherwise, keep up the good work, and don't let me detain you."

"Appreciated."

The call was from Rachelle.

\

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><p>

A pair of spacecraft slowed from reentry speeds as they descended over the desolate, sun scorched landscape of Titania. One of them was a large fighter, an older but well maintained Havoc class attack fighter. The other was a barely larger than shuttle sized spacecraft, outfitted with a wider and more prominent array of sensory equipment than a ship of its size would normally carry; a surveyor.

Despite being settled, much of Titania was still uncharted outside the few patches civilization. Few cartographers would be willing to trudge across vast, highly hazardous expanses of a planet that consisted almost entirely of scorched sand, burnt dust, and roasted stone just to map the damned place and get a good look at the rocks. However, the desolate planet was quite popular with a certain kind of people: prospectors.

There were two things mainly sought after by prospectors who scoured the endless deserts of Titania, the first raw materials: mineral veins, mines, oil wells, gas deposits, anything worth hauling out of the ground to refine and sell, and of special importance were the precious rare sources of water. If not for what little water there was, settlement and exploration of Titania simply would not have been feasible, and the planet would've remained an untouched wasteland not unlike Venom. The second thing prospectors searched for were the ancient ruins, often buried beneath the sands, of a long lost civilization, one that historians and geologists were pretty certain was wiped out with the cataclysm that turned Titania into a dusty sand ball, and gave the planet its ring system and moon. These locations were highly valued, either to mining companies, archaeological interests, or other less scrupulous interests on the black market.

Since there was little official jurisdiction outside Titania's sparse settlements, being well armed or traveling with a well armed escort was considered almost as essential a supply of water. Thus, posing as a freelance survey crew was as natural a cover for pursuing Harrow's trail as any, and even the plentiful weaponry wouldn't appear the least bit out-of-place. Anyone that couldn't defend themselves in the endless desert was easy prey for the predators that stalked the sands, either the opportunistic bandits that braved the endless open desert, or other threats...

"We're coming up on the site." Rachelle announced from the surveyor's pilot seat, "Stay sharp."

The interior of the surveyor was utilitarian, functional, and not much else. The cockpit melded seamlessly to a bank of instrument feeds just aft of it, with the outer access door a little behind that. The rear of the cabin ended in the spartan crew accommodations, and the interior engine and systems access at the furthest aft interior point.

James McCloud, Pigma Dengar and Scott Aberdeen had geared-up in utilitarian fatigues, armed and prepared for the possibility of a trap. Scott sported his usual handgun and sword combination, James carried an assault rifle slung over one shoulder, and Pigma had taken up Adrian's combat shotgun. They stood waiting in the cockpit/instrument readout in the forward compartment of the surveyor, watching as the dusty red Titania sky slowly faded to the dusty red Titania landscape.

Scott was not flying his Havoc fighter for this mission, as he gave that position to Peppy instead instead. When asked why, the terrier shot an angry look, and spouted back in equally angry words, "I am looking at that shuttle with my own eyes, with me own boots on the ground. I am _not_ just goin'tae sit there with me arse in the sky, listening in over the bloody comm!" at which point there were no further objections. Peppy Hare would fly the Havoc fighter, act as the watchful eyes on lookout duty, and also act as heavy firepower should the situation need it.

The surveyor craft slowed down as it cam lower over the ground, passing only a little ways over the dunes below. Soon the craft was going slow enough, and there was something else down there, only a small ways ahead; something other than the endless sands, something artificial. It was the shuttle Charon, little more than a blur against the endless sand and dust at this distance.

"It's these little moments, you know?" Pigma mused, mainly to James. Scott wasn't in the mood for smalltalk, preferring to brood in what had become his trademark smoldering silence. "These breath-holding pauses right before the action that really got to you, eh Jimbo?"

"You don't get to call me that." the fox said bluntly, giving the swine a quick glance, "Nobody does."

"And why not, if you don't mind me asking?"

"The goofy nicknames, they're just..." James trailed off, shaking his head, preferring not to finish the thought, "Plain old 'James' is fine."

"Okay, suit yourself." Pigma accepted with a shrug, "Like I was saying, it's times like these you can't help but think something out there's gonna go horribly wrong, but I guess that's a little redundant here. We're walking into what we're pretty sure is a trap, something is _supposed _to go wrong, and here we are gonna take the brunt of it. What I mean is..." the young swine looked down, and fidgeted with some of the equipment he had on him, "We got this, right? We got an LCI spook, we got some professional badasses on the ground, we got Peppy in the air with that flying tank if it gets _really _ugly... how horribly wrong could things go?"

"Oh, I could probably think of at least a dozen or so unpleasant scenarios," the fox answered with a healthy dose of humor. But then his tone hardened when he followed with, "but... I'd rather not."

"Yeah, probably a good idea." Pigma agreed, shaking those unsettling thoughts from his head, "Just gonna get stuck thinking in circles that way."

The surveyor came to a stop with the shuttle Charon in clear sight before them. hovering over the sand as the engine's roar whined down to a grumble. The craft made its final descent straight down, and moments later came to rest on the ground.

Rachelle Cooney stepped away from the cockpit area and scooped up a satchel bag as she joined the other three near the surveyor's door. "Focus on the mission: keep a lookout for the trouble we're expecting, and let me take care of the detective work." She assured the nervous swine, "You can start worrying about how horribly wrong things can go when you know for sure that horrible things are coming."

And with that, Rachelle punched the door switch, and the outer access door swung up in front of the party, opening to the outside. The four disembarked from the spacecraft moments later.

James winced as he stepped outside the surveyor craft, squinting against the sudden brightness, and onto the shifting, unstable sand under his boots. Then there was the _heat. _Nothing could have prepared him for the sheer, unrelenting, sweltering, parched-dry heat that descended on him outside the shelter of the spacecraft. Not even the breeze was a comfort; the gusts of wind that brought only dry heat, sometimes laced with a helping of stinging sand and dust.

Plenty more of the rusty red sand stretched in every direction, mostly in the massive dunes and curving slopes that they'd seen already while airborne. It all faded into a dim red mist in the distance along the horizon, almost like a thin fog, but drier than dry should ever allowed to be. The sky was only blue, or bluish, further up, above the constant haze of dust. The most apparent feature in the sky was Titnaia's gigantic moon Oberon, squatting there on the horizon. The great pockmarked silver orb was easily visible, even now in the broad daylight, thanks in large part to how much space it took up in the sky, dominating a large portion of the hazy horizon.

"Ugh..." the fox grumbled. Everyone else had, or at least hid, their own looks and expressions of disgust and discomfort.

"Hey, at least it's sunny, right?" Peppy's cheery voice piped over all their comm headsets.

"Oh, sure, it's _fantastic!_" Pigma sassed back, shielding his eyes from the oppressive glaring sunlight, "In fact, why don't you come down out of that climate-controlled cockpit and check it out yourself, huh?"

"Love to, but somebody's gotta keep an eye out for y'all down there." then an engine's roar cut through the desert's stifling silence, and the Havoc attack fighter rumbled passed them overhead.

As expected, Scott had very little to say, and he simply marched straight on forward, giving the others little more than a passing glance.

"When you boys are done taking in the scenery, we've got a shuttle to investigate." Rachelle, gesturing ahead where Scott was headed.

Just ahead, and thankfully not too far away, was the shuttle Charon, parked neatly on the ground. Some windblown sand had begun piling up around the landing feet, and more sand had collected at other parts like on the dorsal turret dome and a few other nook and crannies. Other than the smattering of sand and dust though, the shuttle looked perfectly intact.

Scott looked around the other side of the shuttle, and stopped when he saw what was hidden on the other side. His stony grim face suddenly flashed with worry when he said "Wait..." and he turned back to Rachelle, who was jogging to reach Scott, "There's bodies here."

"Is Chakori–" Cooney began asking once she was close enough.

"No." Scott cut her off, shaking his head, "They're all... others."

Rachelle stepped around the front of the shuttle, and sure enough, there were bodies. There were six of them, mostly reptilian; locals probably, since the reptilian species were pretty comfortable in these hyper-arid conditions. They must've been caravaners, one of the several bands that often criss-crossed Titania's barren wastes. They typically worked either as guides, scavengers, traders, prospectors themselves, or sometimes –and far more dangerous– as raiders.

Rachelle moved in for a closer investigation, looking for any clues to their identity. All of the reptilian corpses were armed, many with higher-end weaponry, and some of them were wearing some kind of body armor as well...

"We've got company!" Peppy barked over the comm channel, catching everyone else off guard.

"What kind?" James asked as he quickly unslung the rifle off his shoulder and armed it, scanning the landscape around him for any movement.

"There's a whole mess of ground traffic closing in from the southwest. They're small, and moving fast." the hare told them, "Hover bikes I'd say by the looks of it, about a dozen."

"This'd be the trap we're all expecting." Pigma figured as he prepped the shotgun, and worked to suppress his nervousness.

"Want me to light'em up?" Peppy asked.

"No." Rachelle ordered, shaking her head, but she seemed focused on something else, "Hold your fire." and she crouched down next to one of the larger and better equipped bodies, examining it closer.

"Well, how about warning shots–"

"She said hold your fire, Peppy!" James cut him off, "So you hold your fire!"

"God– _dammit!_" the hare cursed, "You wanted us here for protection, against a trap that we're expecting, and now you're just gonna let these fellas swarm all over y'all!"

"Only a dozen, ye say?" Scott scoffed as he drew and readied his hand-cannon of a handgun, "It's not that many, we can take 'em down here just fine."

"Even so, you'll understand if I'd rather err on the side of sanity." Pigma snarked back.

"They're desert biker filth." the terrier explained, his gruff tone falling just short of bitter, "They make lot of fuss, a lot of theatrics, but in the end they're not any more deadly than your average scum."

"How much time do we have?" James asked into the comm, taking position at a corner of the shuttle, facing southwest where the alleged bikers were supposed to be coming.

"I reckon a few minutes at most." Peppy told them, "If you got any snap judgments to make, you'd best make 'em quick."

After some examination, Rachelle stood up from the dead reptilian she'd been examining, "Look at this one, in the plated vest:" his metallic body armor had been broken open, and he sported an empty hole in his chest, long since dried out by the hyper-arid environment. "the plates here were shattered– not bent, not punctured, not melted, not sheared– _shattered_. For a material like this, it'd only happen under cryo-shock, flash-freezing to very low temperatures."

Scott took a look at the body for himself, and mentioned, "Harrow's got that ice-spitting thingme on his stick, that might've done it. He's been busy here I'd say."

"So... what then?" Pigma asked as he found a spot to take cover like James had, holding his shotgun close, "Are we saying the guys headed our way and the dead guys here are part of the same group, and they don't like Harrow either? Or is this all a bunch of coincidences?"

Before anyone replied, the dusty desert air was filled by a chorus of approaching engine whines, growing louder and louder as the desert bikers came closer and closer.

"Us in Intelligence have a saying:" Rachelle said, raising her voice to be clearly heard over the growing noise, "No coincidences." She stood up, and started walking forward in the direction the engine whines were coming from, completely in the open.

"Rachelle!" James shouted, baffled by what was tactically the absolute _worst_ possible choice she could be making, "What are you–"

He didn't have a chance to finish.

A line of screaming hoverbikes burst out from over a nearby ridge, carrying a plume of dust behind them that partly obscured the vehicles and riders as they came, making them look something like wailing desert phantoms. The bikers spread out and around as they gathered, surrounding the party and the two landed spacecraft, throwing even more of the suffocating, blurring, obscuring dust into the air until one could hardly see clearly, or breathe comfortably. Then the bikes stopped.

James, Pigma and Scott all had their weapons ready, but not yet trained on any one target. They were all three still in a tense wait-and-see mode

One of the riders, the one who stopped directly ahead of Rachelle, dismounted from his hoverbike and began walking toward the raccoon. As he stepped out of the blown dust and into better visibility, it became apparent he was a larger reptilian specimen, easily standing head-and-shoulders above Rachelle or the others. The rider wore a rough, sand-encrusted cloak over a set of higher-end combat armor, and sported a pair of tinted protective goggles, which he lifted from his slit eyes before he spoke.

"Cornerian?" he asked in a raspy, guttural voice, heavily accented toward one of the native Titanian dialects.

"Yes, we speak Cornerian." Rachelle answered.

"Who are you?" the rider asked, "And what are you doing here?"

"We're surveyors, and this wreckage looked–"

"A survey crew already came through these parts over a year ago..." The towering reptile gave a hand signal, and the surrounding silhouetted riders all readied their weapons in a cacophony of clicks and cocking. Most of them toted rifle types, though some sported submachine gun sized firearms, and a few were hefting larger, shoulder-mounted heavy weapons. The on-foot lead rider turned back to Rachelle with a cold stare beaming from his eyes, "Let's try again little lady: who are you, _really,_ and why are you _really _here–"

* _rrrrrrRrRrRRRRR_ *

It was a low grumble from overhead, getting louder. The surrounding riders became uneasy, chattering amongst themselves in native Titanian. Some of them looked up, searching for the noise source.

"Uh oh..." James began.

"Everybody clear out!" Peppy's voice screamed through the comm.

A deafening roar descended over the scene as the Havoc fighter swooped down, kciking up another billow of dust as it took up a hovering position directly behind Rachelle, with both of its massive gatling blaster cannons trained directly on the large reptilian. Some of the surrounding rideers hesitated, some almost panicked, but those who had heavy weapons immediately set their sights on the new arrival above them.

"Stand down Hare!" Rachelle bellowed into her comm, struggling to be heard over the engine noise. "You're going to get us all _killed!_"

At the same time, the lead rider turned to his men and shouted a set of orders in Titanian accompanied by hand signals that must've conveyed _'hold your fire!'_, since the other riders all lowered their weapons shortly afterward, but not before the Havoc fighter ascended safely away.

"That is most impressive firepower for a 'survey crew'." the lead rider commented as the engine roar died away, giving the raccoon a loaded gaze, "If I were feeling suspicious, I might guess you were expecting to find trouble..."

"Maybe, but it looks to me like the trouble already came and went." Rachelle retorted, pointing out the bodies strewn across the landing site, "Were these your men?"

"What of it?"

They were his; no question. The dead corpses and surrounding riders were all similarly equipped, and there simply weren't enough people in this part of Titania in the first place for them to belong to another near-identical group. Add to that the fact that they were killed by means the surrounding live riders did not likely have available, eliminating the riders themselves as the killers, and a piece of the puzzle fits into place.

"They were killed by a Cerinian, weren't they? _This _Cerinian." Rachelle produced a small handheld holoprojector, showing a clear image of Harrow, "You wouldn't happen to know anything about _him,_ would you?"

The towering reptile gazed into the holographic projection for several silent seconds, and then looked up to the raccoon, "If you want a truthful response from me, I will first require a truthful response from you in trade. So I ask again: who are you, and what business do you have with this... little blue demon?"

He recognized the image, that much was certain, but he wasn't about to give away information for free. He was smarter than the average desert scrounger– a shrewd bargainer– probably why he was in charge of his group, and why they'd survived. Already he'd gleaned that the landed party here was far more than their official cover story, and he'd hinted that he had a bone to pick with Harrow. This'd be a stretch, but it might pay off...

"My name is Rachelle Cooney, I'm an agent of Lylat Central Intelligence." Rachelle answered in straightforward, "We've tracked this Cerinan here and intend to capture him for questioning, or failing that, eliminate him."

Even if this situation fell through completely, anything said here can easily be denied. Titanian caravaners spin lies and half-truths all the time, who would believe them if one group claimed to have spoken with an LCI agent? Still, it was a risky play.

"Your honesty is appreciated, Ms. Cooney." the tall reptile said with a little smile and a small nod, his tone sounding sincere enough, "My name is Ashk'habat, chief of this band of misfits you see here..." he made a sweeping gesture toward the other surrounding riders, end his attention soon returned to Rachelle and the others, "Now tell me, do you know what _he_ is capable of? Any of you?" Ashk'habat asked, not only to Rachelle, but also to James, Pigma and Scott, "Do you know how he undermines strengths, and exploits weakness; how he can make one doubt, hesitate, and even turn against their own?"

"All too well." Scott growled back at the reptile, piercing him with his lance-like glare.

Ashk'habat matched the terrier with a grim, steady gaze of his own, "Then you know your goal is not an easy one."

"All the more reason for us to be open to any help we can get." Rachelle said, stepping between the other two, "Are _you_ able to help?"

"Ah, now that depends..." Ashk'habat turned back to the raccoon with a hungry gleam in his eyes of a merchant who smelled opportunity, "What sort of 'help' would you offer in trade?"

"Credits, arms, equipment, other supplies, and most valuable of all: connections with LCI that'll all but guarantee mutually beneficial arrangements in the future."

Cheap muscle can be rented, used once and disposed of, but someone as sharp as this Ashk'habat character though might be useful down the road in other circumstances. That, and few things ensure short-term loyalty as securely as the opportunity for repeat business; it's the same reason small-time restaurants distribute punch cards to customers...

This had better work.

Ashk'habat took a few moments, considering the terms of the deal. There was something more underneath it though, other cards in the hand, something that deeply unsettled even this grizzled desert rider. This was confirmed when he finally uttered, "I think you will find, Ms. Cooney, that our situation is... a little complicated."

"They usually are." Rachelle exhaled, covering a quiet sigh of relief.

By his cryptic, almost forced tone he used, it seemed like he'd been given the short end of a bad deal, and wanted out, maybe. Given the evidence and events that likely produced it, it could easily have something to do with Harrow. In fact, it was almost certain that was the case.

"We have a place for shelter not too far from here." Ashk'habat mentioned, stepping closer, shifting to a more inviting demeanor, "I would rather discuss further details in a comfortable, more accommodating setting, with you and your party as our guests."

With the desert caravaners invoking hospitality, the pieces of the game finally started to play out to their advantage. That was the hope at least; one can rarely be completely certain about these things.

"Of course, we would be honored to join you." She extended a hand to Ashk'habat, who then clasped it in his much larger "But before we go, I'd like to examine the shuttle, recover hardware and data. It's why we came here in the first place."

"I understand..." the towering reptilian turned toward the other riders and shouted, "Samirr!"

In a few moments, one of the cloaked figures dismounted and joined Ashk'habat at his side. This one was smaller, with his face covered in a head-wrap and eyes hidden behind protective goggles. For all they could see, Samirr might not even have been a 'he'. He was reptilian for sure though, as shown by the thick scaled tail behind him.

"Stay with Ms. Cooney and her party, then guide them back to the camp when they have finished their investigations." Ashk'habat instructed.

Samirr didn't speak, but gave his leader an affirmative nod.

"I'll see you when you're done." the lead rider said with a tone of finality, "I hope you find what you're looking for."

"So do I." the raccoon replied, "Thank you."

With one final affirming grunt, Ashk'habat turned and started walking back to his hoverbike, barking orders to the rest of his men in Titanian. In a flurry of activity, the riders all replaced their weapons, started their noisy vehicles, and zipped away into the desert as swiftly as they'd arrived.

When the engine screams died away, James McCloud approached Rachelle, a mixed look of astonishment, puzzlement and skepticism stretched over his face.

"Hold on, we were all pointing guns at each other one minute, and the next we're invited to dinner? What exactly just happened here?" the astonished fox asked, shooting a cold look to Samirr.

"Hopefully, we made a friend." Rachelle answered, starting toward the shuttle Charon, "Enemies tend to leave potential allies in their wake, if you know how to spot them."

\

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><p><em>To be a spy you need physical fitness, a facility with languages, a tolerance for exotic food and the bugs that come with them. But ultimately there's no greater qualification than the ability to look someone who ruined your life in the eye and say "Let's work together."<em>

-Michael Westen, Burn Notice-

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><p>

Rick Cooney returned to the sitting room area of Cassandra's apartment to an intriguing scene.

Wiley sat there on the couch across from the Cerinian hostess. Their eyes were gently closed, and each sat in an identical, relaxed stance; meditating? Whatever it was they were doing, he was calm then, more calm than Rick had ever seen him before.

"Haran did this to you?" Cassandra asked aloud.

The wolf nodded slowly, keeping his eyes shut, and spoke in a serene voice Rick had never heard him use, "He linked my mind with others, then killed them, made me experience their final moments firsthand as they died."

"_Ju'shi..._" The Cerinian said in quiet shock. She opened her eyes, and found Rick standing there in front of her, "You!" she spat as she stood up, and confronted the raccoon, "Tell me who you are working for, and what you want with me. Tell me now, and tell me the truth, or leave."

Cassandra pierced Rick with demanding eyes, but he just stared back at her with a blank, almost glazed look, "I'm with Lylat Central Intelligence, and my mission is to stop Harrow, or Haran." Rick explained in a voice almost as glazed as his stare, "Do you know the things he's done?"

"I know he's committed _Ju'shi, _Living Death, one of the most heinous acts of torture one can perform with the Gift." Cassandra said coldly, and gestured to indicate Wiley, "No one deserves to experience dying without the release of death, not even Makita."

"That doesn't even scrape the surface." Rick said with a shake of his head, "He slaughtered an entire ship's worth of crew and passengers on the Sojourn, almost succeeded in doing it again with the Amity, then systematically murdered some of the most talented mercenaries I've ever worked with, and that's just what we _know _he did."

"He's done a hell of a lot more, you can be sure of that." Wiley chimed in.

"My partner has just tracked him to a location on the planet Titania. This is the best chance we have to bag him, right now, before he gets a chance to regroup." For once in a very broad while, Rick spoke in complete straight sincerity, and not just another practiced mask, "Looking at the evidence though... I can't do it, I just don't know how. If I don't have some kind of edge over Haran, something I can use to undermine his command of 'the Gift', I don't think I'll survive the encounter, let alone be able to stop him. And yet, despite that, I am _going_ to Titania to hold up my end of the mission to try to stop him, right now, and I'll do it with or without your help. So I need an honest answer from you Cassandra, and I need it now: will you help me stop Haran?"

She stood there for a few moments, stunned, confused, agape, dumbfounded, until she managed to ask, "How do you possibility expect me to trust you?"

"Look in my head with your 'Gift', and judge for yourself if I'm trying to deceive you." Rick challenged, looking back with dead serious expression carved into his features.

And so she looked with her 'gift'; he could feel the tendrils, like probes. It was another consciousness occupying his mind, another identity, like a visitor in the house of his mind. Rick could feel her skepticism and curiosity directly, as if he himself were thinking the thoughts. Then the visitor in his mind left.

"I'm sorry... This is..." Cassandra rubbed her forehead, eyes downcast, struggling to find the words, "It's all very sudden."

"I'm not asking you to be a hero, Cassandra." Rick assured her, "I just need to know what I'm up against, and I don't have much time to find out."

"I... I shall go with you to Titania." The Cerinian decided, looking back up with a resolve to match his own, "It should make the best use of what little time you have."


	15. Chasing Shadows Part III

_When you work in Intelligence, you get used to the idea that some information is worth risking everything for. You sign up for the lifestyle, or the chance to serve your country, or the millions of frequent flier miles, but finally it all comes down to putting your ass on the line to learn something._

-Michael Westen, Burn Notice-

\

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><p><strong>魂魄を追いかけて、三番の本<strong>

_**Chasing Shadows  
>Part III<strong>_

* * *

><p>

Richard Cooney would rather not have involved Otto Jäeger and his crew in this, but the stubborn otter had gotten his honor tied up in the mess with Cerberus and Harrow. He was a good friend of Malcolm Aries, as mercenary captains sometimes become, and he was both saddened and infuriated by Malcolm's death. He didn't want to rest for a moment until he knew Harrow was brought to justice, made to pay for the things he'd done. People are tricky to work with when they're in that state: they'll make snap judgments, take rash action, fail to take note of something important, and may cause more trouble than help.

Otto at least would largely be a help to this cause. As a skilled and resourceful asset to LCI, Jäeger had a vested interest in helping out Intelligence whenever possible, both to his bank account, and the fact that a connection to someone in the Agency who might owe the captain a favor or two would be invaluable in a later time of crisis.

In the end, the situation came down to simple logistical math. Flying aboard the Schwarzwind would cut travel time from Zoness to Titania down to a fraction of what it would've been with the Mercutio alone, which now rested in the Schwarzwind's hangar bay. Also, having Jäeger and his crew as backup in case things went sour was a handy insurance policy to keep in the pocket. Still, Rick didn't want to push this any further than he had to. Jäeger and his crew wouldn't want to feel like they're little more than a tool to Lylat Central Intelligence, and the Agency wouldn't want to owe an asset more than they could afford to give back.

And thus was usually the relationship between agency and asset: not unlike a pair of casual lovers, complete with all the nuances, subtleties and potential complications the analogy implied.

Captain Jäeger had set up Rick, Wiley and Cassandra in one of the spare cabins. It was probably officer's quarters when Schwarzwind was still in military service, being spacious, but with only one bed, not that they'd need it for the quick trip. The cabin was more for privacy; whatever Cassandra had planned, it'd probably be better not to have an audience of curious ogling crew members.

The door to the cabin slid open, and Wiley stepped in where the other two were waiting.

"We're underway." The wolf told them, "Should be arriving at Titania in a few hours."

He didn't want to be there, not for this, not when he knew all too well what Cerinians were capable of.

"We'll have to make the most of our time." Rick said in a flat tone, turning to Cassandra, "So whatever you've got planned, lets get it done."

The Cerinian gave him a little nod, "Fair warning, Cooeny: I will need to enter your mind. More specifically, I will need to search your memories."

"Come again?" Rick blurted out, confused.

"With what little time we have, it's the only way I can help you." she explained.

He wasn't expecting this, to have to place himself at the mercy of a someone he barely met, and a Cerinian no less.

"Let me get this straight: you're asking me to let you inside my head, into the one place where I know the secrets I keep are secure." the raccoon shook his head, and his eyes came to rest a moment on Wiley, the example of what could happen, "You can't ask me to give that all up to you."

"So says the man who demanded my trust on a moment's notice, and swept me off on an adventure." Cassandra scoffed and rolled here eyes, then quickly became serious, "Now it is your turn. If you want that advantage against Haran as desperately as you claim, and as quickly as you need it, then you will need to trust me now, as I have trusted you thus far."

Richard Cooney looked to Cassandra, with her determined eyes piercing him harder than he'd thought gazes could. Granted, he'd seen some damn good gazes in his time in LCI –sometimes the other agents would even practice in front of mirrors to get theirs right– but something about hers just cut right through everything. It wasn't Cerinian psychic shenanigans at work, was it?

His eyes landed on Wiley once again, standing awkwardly in the corner, not sure what to do with himself. He'd been fidgety ever since they knocked on Cassandra's door, always trying to find any excuse to not be in the same place as her, but he also didn't want to stray too far from Rick, his only lifeline at this point. The poor guy was stuck: caught between the spook that might save him, and a Cerinian that spooked the living daylights out of him. He, who had endured a week aboard a floating frozen tomb, endured intense drugging at the hands of Cerberus crew, and endured being ejected into space by Cooney himself, was reduced to a nervous fit by a quirky old woman.

Correction: a quirky old woman with secrets.

Finally, Rick turned back to the selfsame quirky old woman with just one question, "How do I know you won't take advantage of the situation?"

"If it's any comfort, I won't be able to force the secrets from your mind if you choose not to give them up." Cassandra reassured him.

She seemed sincere enough, but how to know for sure? Maybe if Captain Jäeger had one of those ocular lie-detection scanners? No, there wasn't enough time to play 'what if?' It was either Cassandra or nothing, and there was better odds with this peculiar old Cerinian.

"Alright. Fine." the raccoon conceded with a still uncertain sigh, "But I want to know everything you know about Haran: any history between you two, what he's been up to, how he got where he is."

"You will know what I know, as I know it." Cassandra affirmed as she sat down on the cabin floor, and directed Rick to do the same just in front of her, "Let us begin."

"Wiley, go and stand watch outside the cabin." Cooney ordered the wolf, and sat down just opposite Cassandra, matching her meditative stance, "Make sure nobody comes in until we're done."

"Yeah, sure thing." and Wiley shuffled out of the cabin.

Just before the door closed behind him, he could hear Cassandra as she gave a calm instruction,"Relax, Cooney. Take a deep breath..."

And the door sealed shut. He was alone now, in one of the corridors of the Schwarzwind, with only the low rumble of the ship to speak to or hear back from.

This was crazy. This whole stint was absolutely nuts.

He knew what that bastard Harrow was capable of, he'd already tried fighting him, and failed completely. And now, of all the possible people in Lylat he could trust his life to, he got stuck with these two clowns. Granted, there weren't many options, but what could a creepy old lady possibly have to teach to a weird little spy that might turn the tables here?

It'd better be something _damn_ good, that's what.

Alright then, suppose by some miracle she _does _havesomething damn good, it all works out, and Harrow is taken care of? What would Wiley –or Makita– do once it's done? Hell, what would he even call himself? All these fake IDs and aliases he'd been juggling this past year was making his head spin. 'Makita' he knew was the birth name, or at least the one he was first given while growing up alone...

Maybe he'd go back to Serge, get in with his crowd again? Actually, maybe not, that slimy bastard would never let Makita live it down if he did. _'Hm,' _he'd say in his smug little way,_ 'didn't I tell you not to trust that troublesome Cerinian?' _ No, he didn't need that, and he could get by with other means, somehow.

Maybe he'd go and see Carmen again? Haven't checked up on her in almost a year now though. Would she have remembered after all this time? Could she forgive him for dropping out of her life like that, without warning? He had to cut loose from her, with the life he was getting into, there wasn't any way she'd be safe if he still had ties like that...

What if she'd moved on?

The door behind him slid obediently open, and then Rick burst out past him in a mad fit, catching Wiley off guard. The raccoon grabbed the him by his shoulders, and looked him straight in the eyes with an unsettling, crazed stupor. Cooney was heaving for his breath, eyes bloodshot and open wide...

He looked bewildered, confused, frightened?

"Quick!" Rick gasped, "Punch me in the face, now!"

"Wha–"

"Just do it, you stammering _dolt!_"

Somehow, Rick's frantic command carried right through Wiley into action. He pushed the raccoon off him to arms reach as a set up, and delivered a right hook just under Rick's eye to the sound of a solid _thump!_

Rick reeled back and away from the blow, clutching his face, "Ugh... thanks."

"You're um... welcome?" Wiley replied with confusion, and helped him up.

"How long was I out for?" The raccoon as he shook his head, working to composed himself.

"A couple minutes, tops." the wolf answered, but he couldn't ignore Rick's uneasiness, "You okay?"

"Still a little dazed from that right hook of yours, but I'm alright–"

"No, don't try that spy bullshit with me, Rick." Wiley cut him off, knowing full-well it was a lie, "What the hell did she _do_ to you?"

He'd never seen Cooney this shaken up before. Rick was jittery all over, shaking little trembles that he tried to hide. Wiley knew exactly what that was, he'd felt the same way after his first links with Harrow: confused, shaken, uncontrolled trembling.

Still, Rick cracked a smile through his trembling uneasiness, "I think I might know how to beat Harrow."

"You _think?_"

The raccoon just shrugged and chuckled, "Well, this whole psychic mojo thing isn't really an exact science, you see–" he cringed in sudden bout of pain, "_Damn, _I'm gonna get some ice or something for this lump."

And with that, Cooney set off down the corridor, leaving Wiley alone behind him.

"We're screwed." the wolf shook his head, eyes downcast, "So very, very–"

There was only pain.

His face burned with a fire he could not douse. His vision was blinded by a light he could not see, his thoughts obliterated by a scream he could not utter, and all feeling smothered by a pain he could not feel.

But then there was a voice he could not hear, cutting through all the rest.

_Do not be afraid, Makita._

Wiley's vision returned, and he found himself on his back, in the cabin, staring up at the ceiling. Then there was Cassandra, looking down to him with great concern.

"Get away from me, you conniving bluefur hag!" Wiley yelled, and scrambled up to his feet, "I know what you did to Rick! You fucked with his head, like Harrow did to me!"

"No, I did not." Cassandra rebutted coolly as she shook her head, "Cooney's answer against Haran has always been with him, I merely helped him to realize which question to ask. What Haran has done to you is something else entirely, and it is getting worse."

"Worse?"

Could be true enough. He'd been having the dying dreams more and more often. He knew every moment of every scrap of fear and agony they felt, right up to their final oblivion. This was the first time he had a flashback while still awake though.

"It is the nature of Ju'shi, I'm afraid." the Cerinian explained, pacing around Wiley in a circle, "Left untreated, the deaths you have experienced will fester, and spread through your mind like the infection of a gaping wound, or a cancer. As your mind is slowly overrun, the Ju'shi will drive you further and further into madness, until the time comes to experience your own death."

"I don't... _augh!_" the wolf cringed, collapsed to his knees with his head in his hands.

He suddenly felt so very pained, with so many dissonant thoughts bouncing through his head.

He wasn't going insane. There's no way he could be losing his mind like she said... but it made sense... but then, everything Harrow said made sense at the time too. She can help him... like Harrow helped? She knows what he did, she can fix it... He could fix it himself.

"I don't want you in my head."

Who the hell was he kidding? He couldn't fix this anymore than a rock could fix a crack in itself.

"Makita, for all the terrible wrongs he has done to you, I want to make it right." Cassandra knelt down next to Wiley, and placed her hand on his shoulder, "Let me help you to be rid of that which pains you, and so repay the debt owed to you on behalf of my kind."

"How?"

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><p>"<em>I think you will find, Ms. Cooney, that our situation is... a little complicated."<em>

* * *

><p>

_A little over a year ago_

The winds of Setarea blew gentle and cold in the early morning, carrying its sands across the dunes. The sun had not quite risen yet, still glowing crimson over the edge of the horizon, throwing its blooded light across the half-buried ancient stones all around him, casting long shadows and silhouettes. Ashk'habat had seen many ancient ruins in his time, Titania was practically pockmarked with them. These ones were different though, built in an architectural style unseen on this world, and with materials that shouldn't be present.

Instead of the tranquil stillness of dawn, the exotic ruins were busy with an excited murmur: off-worlders, archaeologists invited to study these peculiar ruins. The archeology crew had elected to begin their work early in the morning, to give them at least a few hours time to work before the midday heat would become unbearable to those not suited to it. The men and women scurried about all around Ashk'habat and his men, poking and prodding at the stones, notating every glyph and image, being ever so careful not to let any detail go unnoticed. So many of them were young, so filled with youthful vigor and insatiable curiosity. This was not Ashk'habat's main concern though.

He and his men had been hired as guides and bodyguards, to keep the off-worlders safe and from the threat of raiders or the occasional predator, and to help provide shelter in the harsh deserts. Where the archeology team's focus was on what they could find at their feet, and constanlty chattering among themselves, Ashk'habat and his men remained silent in their sentinel duty, watching the distant horizon for anything amiss–

"There you are!"

Ashk'habat nearly jumped out of his boots at the words behind him, almost a comical sight for the towering stoic reptilian.

He quietly cursed under his breath, and turned to face the speaker, Dr. Archibald Spalding. He was a smaller feline a solid gray fur tone, and the leader of the expedition. He gazed up at Ashk'habat with wide wondrous eyes, all but dancing with joy on the spot.

"Oh? Did I startle you?" Dr. Spalding asked "My apologies–"

"What is it?" the reptile asked.

It seemed unbecoming for a distinguished, intellectual man like Spalding to behave with such giddy excitement, almost like a child.

"My dear friend Ashk'habat, how could you be so stoic and stern at a time like this?" the little feline asked, pointing out the ruins around them and the busy archeology crew, "Don't you find this the least bit exciting? Actual Krazoic structures, right here in Lylat, on your homeworld of Titania no less! It's... _astounding!_ This is going to be the news of the–"

* _Blam!_ *

The doctor's excited babbling was cut short by a nearby blaster shot, soon followed by many more, along with the pained screams of the shots' targets as they fell. It shouldn't have been possible, no one was seen approaching the ruins.

"What's going on?" Dr. Spalding asked, confused, frightened, "What's the meaning of this? Are they–"

"Stay close to me, Doctor!" Ashk'habat ordered, then unslung the assault rifle from his back, watching for any sign of the hostiles. He didn't see any of his men engaging, and that worried him.

There was a sudden crackle of static at the reptile's ear, one of his men making contact, "Ashk'habat!" he babbled in frantic Titanian, "The off-worlders are attacking each other! What do we do?"

Ashk'habat did not know, and simply stayed silent on the comm.

The silence persisted, falling so silent in fact that there was no more blaster-fire. Almost as suddenly as the sounds of slaughter and dying screams began, it ended. The excitement of the expedition, and then the screams of pain, were now still and quiet in death.

One of the off-worlders approached Ashk'habat, but he wasn't frightened. This one carried himself with a strange confidence, a jovial mockery of satisfaction. He was a tall black-and-white canid, rivaling Ashk'habat in sheer height. He was armed, but only with a pistol on his belt, as many of the off-worlders were, knowing the dangers.

There were a few others with him also, all dressed the same as the archeology crew, and armed as well. But these men, and even a couple women, were far more grim and stern-faced; they were killers. One of them seemed especially worrisome: a little scowling vulpine, with blue fur. There was just... something odd about that one.

Ashk'habat's men simply watched them, stunned into silence, or out of morbid curiosity.

"My friends! Please, do not be alarmed." the tall canid greeted in accented Titanian, "Let me introduce myself. I am Garmir, a visionary individual of enterprise, and I come to you with a proposition. Hear me out, and I promise you will have much to gain."

"We will do no such thing!" Ashk'habat spat back as he stepped forward, his words aflame. The reptile motioned toward his men, giving them the nonverbal order to ready themselves, and they all aimed their weapons at the group, "My men and I are bound by duty to protect these people from danger."

"And what a _fine_ job you're doing." Garmir said with a laugh, indicating the corpses that had once been the archeology team.

"We outnumber you," Ashk'habat growled, "and we will have no qualms over slaughtering you and leaving your filthy carcases to the fate of Titania's sands for this."

"Excuse me, um... good sir," the little feline said, stepping out, trying very hard to cover up his utter terror, "I'm Dr. Spalding."

Garmir just rolled his eyes and sighed as he replied, "Yes, I know who you are."

"I'm... I'm very quite sure that..." Dr. Spalding stammered, eyes glancing through the grim-faced group before him, "I'm sure we can work something out... like civilized–"

* _Blam!_ *

Garmir had drawn and fired his handgun faster than any eyes could see, blasting a shot straight into Dr Spalding's face. The little feline didn't even have a chance to cry out in pain, and he was dead before his body collapsed on the sand.

"No!"

Not a moment later Ashk'habat had his assault rifle up and firing into the group, spraying them with a torrent of blaster-fire as he screamed in outrage.

Something wasn't right though. The suspicious little blue vulpine had stepped between Ashk'habat and Garmir, holding some kind of exotic staff weapon. It projected some kind of barrier, absorbing every shot the enraged reptile fired. The strange fox just sneered back at him through his barrier, and stepped forward, reveling in the shock he'd put on the stalwart Ashk'habat. He kept firing anyway, even with the weapon growing hot in his hands with every shot

Just as Ashk'habat's hands felt as if they'd fry from the overheating, the rifle's magazine cartridge ran dry, and the weapon went silent.

Without any time to react, the little blue vulpine had given a flourish of his staff that knocked the useless weapon from Reptile's grasp, and tumbling to the sand.

When Ashk'habat looked up, he was staring down the barrel of Garmir's handgun, with the tall canid who wielded it looking just jovial. Ashk'habat's men, all watching the events unfold, were stunned. They chattered amongst themselves, so unsure of the current situation. Their leader was at the mercy of some strange off-worlders who'd bested him so easily. Some things could be made out from the chatter, _"what kind of sorcery is that?" __"it's madness!"_ _"maybe we should hear what the off-worlder has to say"_ _"Kill them now!"_

Ashk'habat could only watch silently, both outraged and horrified as this Garmir character had his way, exploiting the curiosity and indecisiveness of the men. They were loyal men, all of them, but their loyalty only stretched as far as what was practical. It was a simple fact of desert caravan life, one that Garmir seemed to know all too well.

"Let me clarify the situation." the tall smiling canid began, never losing his polite, welcoming demeanor, even as he held Ashk'habat at gunpoint, "As far as anyone outside of us is concerned, this benign archaeological expedition has just been the victim of a _horrible_ confidence trick. How could you lure these innocent people out to the harsh deserts, only to murder them for your own enjoyment? By Lyla, the people who live in Titania's deserts are such barbaric _animals. _So, even if by some miracle you can overpower my forces, you will simply codify the "truth" of what happened: the "truth" of murdering scum with no honor. Don't you see? _That's_ the story that leaves these ruins today. You will find no support beyond the strength of your word, and it would be your word against the outraged, justice-craving word of official authorities. They _hate_ you, and would not lose a second of sleep to execute every last one of you."

This prompted a series of uneasy grumbles from the men. Everything Garmir was telling them was true. Titanian desert caravaners were far from trusted among off-world visitors, and not without reason. Many enough truly were selfish bandits, preying on the weak and unprepared. Many of Ashk'habat's men were once like that, and some of them still harbored secret ambitions of plundering, despite his best efforts to reform them into respectable people.

"But please, you _mustn't_ think me unkind, I don't want that for you." Garmir stepped away from Ashk'habat, lowering his handgun and addressing the caravaners instead, "No, I want to _protect_ you, and to give you the wealth and opportunity you all so well deserve, yet have been denied by these ignorant hateful creatures. My enterprising little family can do this, and you are all welcome to share in the great wealth these ruins will soon reap, as well as future wealth still yet unfathomable."

The men responded with an excited murmur, lured by the promise of wealth, of the life of ease and power. This was the end of it. If Ashk'habat were to oppose the offer openly, he would be killed, and most of his men would happily work for the grinning canid. They'd kill off what few were still loyal to Ashk'habat, and conduct whatever business there was without him

Garmir now turned back to the towering reptile, still wearing that filthy slimy smile on his face, so smug in his. He holstered his weapon and extended an open hand, but he may as well have been holding a pair of shackles the way things were.

"What say you?" he asked, so friendly on the outside, yet so confident and domineering underneath.

There was only one option: to submit under Garmir for now, do what he wanted, and to look for opportunities later.

"I say you make an interesting offer." Ashk'habat answered, and clasped his hand in Garmir's, "I accept."

\

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><p>

The place that Ashk'habat and his caravan used as shelter was cavern, carved into the sandstone by a meager underground spring, one of so precious few water sources in the Setarea. The rusty red space was lit by a series of movable light fixtures, work lights perhaps, all casting looming shadows of figures onto the walls. What little tech there was; a comm station, sensor readouts, basic field medicine suite; was all powered by a cluster of portable generators. Anything that didn't absolutely need power, they used mundane means for.

The meal they'd served consisted of field rations, military surplus, or other long shelf-life foodstuffs that didn't demand refrigeration. The caravaners seemed like the kind who'd prefer to hunt or scavenge the land for food, but the barren Setarea did not provide so much as a scrap. Everything that supported them here, save for the near-miraculous water source they'd found, had to be carted in from somewhere else.

The general impression of the caravaners themselves was that of tired, weary, bored travelers, going nowhere, but also on edge. Their uneasiness could be attributed to the newly arrived party, who sat in a circle around a small fire, politely finishing the meal they'd been served as they listened to Ashk'habat recount the events that brought the caravan there.

"Garmir?" Scott asked, surprised, recognizing the name, "That old silver-tongued pirate's behind this?"

"If that's all true, then why are we here, and as guests?" Rachelle questioned over her half-emptied tray, somewhat suspicious, "Why aren't we enemies?"

"Because it did not last." Ashk'habat answered firmly, looking Rachelle square in the eye, "Garmir's promises of wealth never came to fruition, lost to complications and time. My men grew restless and disgusted, but none dared mutiny against Garmir and his elite cohort. As it happened, the first who lost patience and stood against Garmir openly was the blue one, 'Harrow' as you know him."

James, Peppy, Pigma and the others listened intently while Ashk'habat continued.

"Skilled as he was, the little blue one did not strike me as an experienced mercenary. He was impatient, defiant, and never quite loyal to Garmir at all. The frustration of the stagnant situation devolved into a power struggle between the two, until their final schism. Since my men were similarly dissatisfied with Garmir's lack of results, it was not a stretch for us to stand with Harrow, however reluctantly. Garmir was embittered left us alone soon after, and we haven't heard anything about him since."

"But if that scene back at the shuttle is any clue, you and this Harrow creep don't seem like friends either." Peppy observed.

Ashk'habat let out a grumbling sigh when he heard that, "I chose to 'ally' with Harrow in the schism specifically because he was unstable, because I knew he would not be able to keep order for very long. When the little blue one would falter, that is where my men and I would turn against him, and expel him. I thought that time might have come a few days ago when he returned. He seemed far more stressed in his communication, far more desperate than I'd ever seen him before."

"People are at their most dangerous when at their most desperate." Rachelle observed.

"Exactly." the towering reptile agreed, and continued, "I urged caution, but some of my more adamant men could not wait for the opportune moment, and acted on their own to confront him. You've seen the consequences of their impatience."

"Do you know where he is now?" James asked, growing restless. The fox had that somewhat agitated look in his eye, of one who had grown weary of waiting, and wanted to move to action.

Ashk'habat considered the fox for a moment, before finally answering, "The only place he could be is those Krazoic ruins. He is not among us, and there are no other places for shelter within traveling range on foot."

"Then what're we waiting for?" Peppy asked suddenly, springing to his feet, alive with a renewed vigor, "Let's get out there!"

"Wait!" Ashk'habat interrupted, "If you are set on heading out there, then there is something you should know."

"What is it?" James asked, growing impatient. What would he need to know that hasn't been told already?

"Harrow would return to the ruins often, and he'd bring one or two of his off-world lackeys with him. He'd lead them deep into the sand-buried structure, and remain there for several hours before returning, sometimes longer. I don't know exactly what happened in there, but the trip... changed them."

The tall reptile's voice continued on, growing more grave, and more uncertain as the subject went away from what he knew, to what he could only guess at.

"When the off-worlders first arrive, they all have that puffed up mercenary's bravado about them, the fabricated confidence I've seen countless times before. But when they return from the Krazoic ruins, they are... ghostly, absent of any emotion, of expression. They are completely focused, like monks in meditation, but somehow sinister, vacant–"

"Um, guys?" Pigma piped up as he looked around, worried, "Has anyone seen Scott?"

They all looked around, scanning the cavern, but there was no sign of Scott anywhere.

Rachelle shook her head, and brought her hand up over her face, "Oh no..."

"Come on!" James shouted as he started toward the cavern's exit, revitalized with new purpose, "We have to go after him!"

\

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><p>

Harrow sat outside, on the highest point of the broken ruins, where the dry wind whipped and tugged on his white hair. The sun was going down now, hovering only just above the moon, making the heat a little less unbearable. In a few more hours, the sky would darken, and the desert would then play host to an bitter yet iceless cold.

The Cerinian felt a lone presence approaching fast, probably one of Ashk'habat's men on a hoverbike. He could be another of the fools who would challenge him; unlikely though. It was probably just the supply runner that Ashk'habat had agreed to send daily. That lizard knew the price if he failed to uphold his agreement. Still, never hurts to be prepared...

The presence was soon accompanied by a small billow of dust streaking along the sands, and the slow crescendo of an engine whine: hoverbike.

Harrow sprang to his sandaled feet, adjusted the harness that held the unexpanded staff under the sweater, and made his way down. He bounded effortlessly from stone to stone, sliding down inclines with perfect control, always absolutely sure of his footing, of his surroundings.

The Cerinian reached the sand at the bottom a few moments later, and found that the hoverbike had come to a stop nearby. The rough-cloaked figure dismounted, a little clumsy it seemed, his movements not quite as natural as Ashk'habat's riders should have been.

The cloaked figure saw Harrow, and started toward the Cerinian. The spark of suspicion prompted Harrow to pry a little deeper into the rider's mind. His mind felt something like the fools who'd first greeted him when he returned, but it was sharper, harder, more refined. He had such singular purpose, such focus, all fueled by revenge, and it was such a very personal flavor of revenge...

Ah.

He knew exactly who this mind belonged to.

"You are not one of Ashk'habat's men." Harrow stated dryly.

As if in reply, the cloaked figure reached over his shoulder behind his back. Then with a grating, tearing noise, the cloak was cut away, it's tattered remains falling to the sand at the rider's feet. What was revealed was a dark furred terrier in a set of military-style fatigues, holding a sword. The wiry canid glared back at the Cerinian, through eyes that may as well have been a pair of infernos.

No need for words.

Harrow reached behind his back under the sweater, then drew the staff and expanded it so quickly that it it seemed to materialize from nowhere.

The two of them stood there for a wonderfully tense moment. Each assumed their respective fighting stances, scrutinizing the other. It was the calm before the storm about to erupt between them, and it'd only end with at least one dead.

He was going to enjoy this...

Author Notes:

I have no excuses. This chapter has been languishing and sitting for far too long. I'll do my best to get these out quicker in the time to come.

As always, your feedback is most welcome.


	16. Those Who Fight Monsters

_He who fights monsters should see to it that he himself does not become a monster. And if you gaze for long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you._

-Friedrich Nietzsche-

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><p><strong>怪物と戦う者たち <strong>

_**Those Who Fight Monsters**_

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><p>The sun inched behind Titania's gigantic moon Oberon, creating a sudden and early twilight. The great silver orb went black with a point of light on its edge. As the dimmed sunlight passed through the dusty air, it created the eerie image of a great black circle on the horizon, set against a blood-red sky. Everything the light struck cast long shadows<p>

With his impact claymore drawn and held in a ready stance, Scott stood opposite of the cause of all his recent agony and rage: a Cerinian. By all accounts, he shouldn't have even been that menacing a figure: dressed in everyday street-clothes, and didn't even look a day over thirty. And to think this little blue-furred twink had been able to cause so much grief...

Harrow just stood there, his odd staff weapon in hand, looking back at Scott with a venomous sneer, like he knew exactly how this would going to play out. It was insulting. Seeing him like that made Scott want to spit in the punk's face, and then go to work on him in the most excruciating ways imaginable.

For a while, they didn't budge an inch. Each spent the silent, tense time scrutinized the other, observing, watching, waiting...

Harrow opened his mouth to speak, but whatever he had to say was never said.

"_HAAAH!_"

With a savage shout, face twisted in a fierce snarl, Scott shot toward the Cerinian in a ghostly blue flash –the Phantom module– and executed a mighty sword strike with the dash.

_* Clang! *_

The strike was caught by Harrow's staff, and was only barely redirected away, leaving the Cerinian staggering under the intense force. Scott simply wheeled the momentum of his opponents counter around and spun into another strike from another angle, just as powerful.

Scott's sword technique didn't appear elegant at first glance. That is, it did not at all resemble the showy flourishes of more exotic forms, but that's not to say the terrier didn't have finesse. His form revolved more around positioning, pressure and efficiency rather than show-offish acrobatics. In Scott's hands, the sword was as much a prying lever and grappling tool as it was a striking implement, a true extension of his arm.

Harrow's technique made much use of his extraordinary agility, leaping twisting and flipping both to evade attack, and to confuse or intimidate Scott. He kept himself in constant motion, being able to block, attack, evade and counterattack from nearly every position, including the times he was airborne. Each maneuver flowed effortlessly from one to the next to another, every movement smooth and fluid. It was at once spectacular and terrifying.

If Harrow caught a strike, Scott would simply reposition and torque his blade into a threatening angle, and press in for the kill. Every time though, Harrow managed to break free at the last moment. The persistent pressure constantly put the Cerinian on the defensive, having to catch and completely redirect Scott's powerful and surprisingly quick strokes before attempting a counterattack. Even these were either caught on the terrier's blade and redirected, or he simply evaded the staff strikes entirely.

In those times that Scott closed in when their weapons locked, Harrow might attempt to throw out a kick, but it usually didn't work. With one foot off the ground, all Scott needed to do to throw the Cerinian off balance was apply more pressure in the weapon lock, and the kick was shut down. The only times Harrow could get a solid kick in at all is if the kick-strike was tied in when his staff blocked and redirected a sword blow. Even then, Scott could make an arm free to block the kick, and then move to counterattack.

Thus the deadly duel continued for some time, each fighter matching the other blow for blow, stroke for stroke...

The terrier and the Cerinian locked their weapons again, face-to-face when Harrow said through a sneer, "Would you like to know how they died, little soldier?"

"Stow it!" Scott forced him back, and struck another blow.

"It's a fascinating phenomena, death." the Cerinian mused between blows. He didn't sound the least bit winded, or tired, "At the end, when there is no hope of survival: that is when we act most as our true selves. So in a way, having felt them die, I know _far_ more about your fallen comrades than even you."

The terrier simply ignored the words, pretended not to hear them, and kept right on fighting. As much as he worked to focus on the fight itself, looking for openings to wedge his strikes into and skewer Harrow, Scott still couldn't dismiss from his head what the Cerinian said, and continued to say.

"The old goat thought he was clever, but died a pitiful _fool,_ unable to grasp the truth even when it was placed plainly before him."

Ignore the words, he's only trying to distract. Parry, counterattack, evade, strike...

"The bird thought himself brave, thought he was a valiant hero, yet acted as a coward would when the end came as he _begged_ for his life."

That _bastard._

The terrier could feel the emotions swirling in his head, threatening to erode his concentration, break his form. As much as he'd like to slice Harrow up and bleed his broken corpse out over the desert, he had to keep the urge in check, so not to do anything stupid.

"How will _you_ die, I wonder? Beneath your rage, your hatred: what are you, truly?" Harrow asked, and a sinister little smile came to his face, "Shall we find out?"

In the course of the duel, Scott attempted a simple downward stroke, which Harrow redirected to his side, as expected. But just as the block, Scott stepped in, redirecting the momentum of his blocked sword so the handle of the up under the Cerinian's outstretched arm. Scott had him in a perilous bind: the grip of his sword wedged down against Harrow's elbow, while the blade pressed up on the middle of the staff, their grimacing faces only inches apart.

In that instant, the smug visage of Harrow fell away briefly to a twinge of surprise. It was only made worse when Scott spat a thick disgusting wad into the Cerinian's not-so-smug face.

"Your grim bloody _nightmare_ is what I am." the terrier growled, every word seething with menace.

Without a moment of silence afterward, Scott stepped forward and wrenched against the bind. The sheer leverage forced Harrow back on his heels, off balance, and ultimately off his feet. The Cerinian's back slammed into the sand with a dull _crunch. _Scott had him pinned down.

It was a simple matter at that moment to thrust the sword in and finish him, which Scott did... but to his surprise, Harrow had grabbed hold of the blade in his bare hand just as he was about to be skewered. The Cerinian controlled his grip just at the right pressure that the friction would stop the blade, and his hand wouldn't be sliced open. Harrow glared up at Scott with a maniacal grin, face mired by sand and spit...

Cute trick, but simple remedy.

Scott simply activated the sword's impact mechanism. A dull hum of electricity and a rattling scream from the internal hammer triggered sudden jarring micro-vibrations all along the blade. Harrow's hand couldn't hold a grip against that kind of force, and the blade slipped through his fingers, and plunged into his throat. The Cerinian's dirty, bloodthirsty face bore one last look of utter terror as his blood began to escape, joining the dust and spit on his face, and seeping into the sand below him...

It was over.

It was all finally over.

The battle over and adrenaline spent, Scott at last felt the weariness of the fight, his sore stiff limbs, his breathless lungs as he gasped for much needed air. He yanked his weapon up and–

Something wasn't right. There wasn't any blood on the sword blade. He'd sliced through Harrow's hands, and torn open his throat, but the blade was as clean, like it hadn't been used at all. Scott looked down, and found that the Cerinian's bleeding corpse wasn't there: just sand...

What?

"Did you really think it would be so easy, little soldier?" Harrow's asked. The voice was real enough, but sounded as if it was more than just his ears, like he was speaking directly through the terrier's mind...

Scott made a quick survey of the surroundings: sand, broken walls, crumbling ruins. The sun had long since passed behind the moon, leaving just a great black disc against a dull red sky, darkening with every passing moment. And there was Harrow, leaning ever so casually against the wall of one of the larger structures. His arms were crossed over his chest, and the face had that unbearable smug little smirk of his again.

At that moment the Cerinian stepped away from the wall, and walked toward an opening.

On closer inspection, the structure appeared familiar to Scott. It looked very much like an enlarged head, like the one on the 'Krazoa Golem' he fought so many years ago on Sauria. The structure here may have been constructed from local materials, and broken down by the elements over the years, but the resemblance was unmistakable...

At his easy walking pace, Harrow disappeared into the structure's entrance, the 'mouth' of the head.

Confusion was overtaken by rage. Scott took a stance, lined up, and activated the Phantom module again. The terrier shot toward the entrance in a flash of blurred blue streaks, and rematerialized just inside the entrance where Harrow was– where he was supposed to be, at least.

The entrance led into a corridor, sloping down into some underground compound beyond. A lot of sand had blown into the gaping entrance, settling into the edges and corners. It was a wonder the corridor hadn't been buried and filled with sand under Titania's harsh elements, or perhaps it had been buried and recently excavated.

The stone corridor was lit –only barely– by a strange sourceless glow. Where there should have been utter darkness, there was just enough light to see by, enough light to navigate by...

The terrier stepped further into the ruined corridor, in pursuit of Harrow. At the same time though, an alert curiosity began to manifest. What unsettled Scott most though was how eerily familiar it all seemed.

"You've seen a place like this before, haven't you, little soldier?" the Cerinian's voice observed.

He was right. The broken, crumbling architecture in here was very much like the shrine on Sauria he'd ventured into with Dr. Harrison many years ago. The carvings were of similar design, if a little worn by the invading elements. The eerie glowing light was exactly the same, and grew stronger deeper in, away from the outside.

"And so what if I have?" Scott asked aloud, his suspicious voice echoing and bouncing through the stone passageway.

"Then, perhaps, you may truly appreciate the power sealed here." Harrow's voice answered.

"Power?"

"_Get back, Scott!"  
>Dr. Harrison had stepped onto the platform, and strode toward the statue-warrior's shattered remains with a determined purpose.<br>"You have no idea what that is."_

He was seeing images from his past resurface, hearing long forgotten voices. Even as he relived the moments, he was still very aware of his surroundings, like the past images simply superimposed over what his eyes could see in the here-and-now.

"_And you do?" Bewildered, Scott backed away from the glowing apparition and let Harrison take his place._

_The slim hound answered Scott's question with a solemn nod as he gazed upon the hazy blue patch with a similar wonderment as a child. "And I'll know even more soon enough."_

_The cloud descended, and hovered in front of Harrison for a few moments, then surged forward, knocking the lanky canine off his feet as he became engulfed in the glowing aurora, but he didn't fall. Instead, Harrison was lifted several feet off the ground, where he hung in the air suspended by nothing at all. The glowing blue aurora began to fade, and Harrison sank back to the floor on his hands and knees, drained by the experience..._

"Power, little soldier." the Cerinian's disembodied voice confirmed, "You've seen it before."

_* Crack! *_

_A flash of blueish light silhouetted the the soldier's head before could finish, and his lifeless body collapsed to the ground as it went limp. Harrison was there on the other side, with an open hand extended where Buckley's head was a moment earlier. His eyes were ablaze with a searing blue light, and his face contorted in a ghastly grimace._

_The three remaining soldiers snapped their assault rifles into fire-ready positions, all aimed directly at the crazed figure of Arno Harrison. Their discipline was solid, showing no fear given the unexpected turn of events, but they still hesitated a moment, and that moment was long enough..._

_The slim hound drew his lips back in a toothy grin as he brought his hands out in front, both of which ignited in a luminescent blue aurora._

_* Crack! *_

_Claws of lightning erupted from his outstretched arms, striking each of the camo-clad figures in their faces before they had chance to fire. The jungle clearing shone brighter for a time, lit-up by Harrison's blazing arcs of electrostatic discharge. The soldiers' agonized cries of pain were barely heard, smothered over by the lightning's screech and crackle..._

"But what you witnessed so long ago: it is only the smallest fraction of what is possible..."

That wasn't Harrow's voice this time. It was a woman's, someone Scott was afraid he'd never see again...

For the first time in a very long time, the dark terrier's features became, awash in a flurry of emotion. Anger and fear washed away, replaced by relief, fear, skepticism, but above all: hope. It was a strange kind of hope, one that he desperately wanted to be true, but also not...

"Chaks?"

Scott's voice was weak, trembling. The iron grip of his fist loosened, and all the rigid tension in his body went slack. Then he saw her...

It was little more than a silhouette at first, a dim outline in the ethereal blue glow. When Scott approached closer, nearly stumbling with every step, the outline assumed the form of Chakori Uncia. There was no mistake, it was her, in the flesh. The ashen leopardess may have been a little more haggard than when he last saw her, but it was in-fact her–

Something wasn't right...

It was the eyes. In Chakori's eyes was the very same pale glow of light that Arno Harrison had; the same glow that Harrow had. And the rest of her face: it was the blankest, most ghastly expressionless thing imaginable, like a traumatized thousand-yard stare, but it was more than that. Her features betrayed not one shred of emotion, not one hint of thought.

"Chaks, can ye hear me?" the terrier asked, his weak voice becoming far more desperate, "It's your Scott!"

The was no answer from Chakori, no response of any kind to Scott's presence. She simply continued to stare off into nothing.

"No..." Scott said, nearly a whisper, and shook his head, fighting back the despair and confusion, "No! This is some sort of trick!"

"Is it though?" Harrow's smug voice said, and the Cerinian himself then stepped out into view, further down the corridor.

All of the tension that had faded away and all of the rage that had dissipated returned to Scott at that vary instant. Without thinking, his sword was up, and he was already charging toward the blue-furred bastard with murder in his blood.

"_RRAAAAAGH–_"

He was stopped.

In the same instant, Scott found himself being flung backward several feet before landing heavily on his back. When he looked up, to both his horror and confusion, he found Chakori standing over him. The glow in her eyes had only gotten brighter, more ominous as she advanced toward the startled terrier, and drew her distinctive forward-deflected knife.

\

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><p>

James McCloud ripped through Titania's Setarea desert, riding a hoverbike borrowed from Ashk'habat's group, with an assault rifle strapped to his back, sidearm at his hip, and survival knife on his belt. The sky had grown suddenly dark during the ride, with the sun lost further and further behind the moon Oberon every minute. It was now reduced to a dark reddish shade, but still with enough light to see by, for now at least.

For a while, it seemed like the featureless desert would stretch on for infinity: a flat plane of bloody rusty red that never changed, never ended, never began, but simply was. James knew the way he was supposed to go to reach the Krazoic ruins Ashk'habat discussed –east– and the compass on the hoverbike pointed him in that direction. If it were not for that simple means of navigation, it would've been so very easy to become lost in the infinite void, in the unending flat nothing. As it was though, it should simply be a matter of time.

Sure enough, some several minutes later, a tiny dot could be made out against the distant hazy horizon. It wasn't much at first, but it expanded and grew larger as James raced toward it, assuming the shape of a larger round-topped structure. It rose some fifty or more meters into the air, or so; scale was a little hard to make out at this distance...

There was something else.

In the sky, far above, another shape was beginning to take form, and a distant low rumble began to overcome the immediate scream of the hoverbike's engine. It was a starship, descending through the atmosphere. As James came nearer and nearer to the Krazoic ruins, and the ship descended further, he soon recognized the shape and silhouette of the descending vessel: the Schwarzwind, Captain Jäeger's ship.

In a few minutes' time, James found himself within the Krazoic ruins, surrounded by broken walls and crumbling stone. He parked the hoverbike next to the large round structure and dismounted, rubbing his tired squinting eyes, and uncomfortably understanding why the riders always wore their goggles. He looked up at the structure, getting a better look. It was shaped something like a primate's head, but it was all somehow alien, foreign, elusive... He couldn't shake the feeling that there was something just not about the whole thing.

The Schwarzwind descended even lower over the ruins now, its massive g-diffusers painting the the dry cooling air with a roar as it hovered overhead. Then another far smaller shape had emerged from the Schwarzwind, and descended rapidly toward the ground with a much higher-pitched whine that grew louder as it approached. Jame's ears pricked up, he immediately recognized the whine of that drive: twin Space Dynamics Shooting-Star plasma thrusters, ones the Cooenys _finally _installed on the Mercutio, but only after James had insisted_, _relentlessly, and for many months, that the old bird desperately needed an upgrade.

Rick was aboard the tiny spacecraft, no doubt about it. What could he be bringing to the party here?

The answer would come soon enough, since a few moments later the Mercutio touched down at a flat portion of the ruins, blowing some dust into the air as the craft settled. The boarding ramp went down, and three figures disembarked: two James recognized, and one he did not...

"Jim?!" the raccoon greeted, his voice and face plastered in astonishment, "What're you doing here?"

"I'd ask you the same thing..." James began, but then noticed the others who were accompanying Cooney, "Umm... Rick?"

"Yeah?"

"Did I miss something?" the fox asked, pointing out the white wolf in particular, "Are we friends now, or something?"

On hearing this, that wolf stepped forward. He was dressed mainly in plain street-clothes, but also sported a military-style harness with enough firepower to hold his own in a firefight.

"Oh right, I remember this guy: the grumpy pilot." Wiley said as he looked over James, "Didn't you try to kill me?"

"No." James denied, growing irritated, "You were the one who tried to kill _me,_ after you killed the rest of my squad! Rick, what the hell is _he _doing here?!" the fox demanded.

"This is not the time–"

"After the shit he pulled, you're _working_ with him now, like nothing happened?!" James interrupted.

"If you got something to say, feel free to say it to my face, you self-righteous little _bitch!_" Wiley barked, stepping between Rick and James, leering at the fox "They're dead, people die, get over it!"

"_Enough!_" someone else shouted. It was a woman's voice, someone James didn't know, and somehow carried more weight than a voice ought to...

The voice belonged to a middle aged vulpine woman, with gray fur. There was something about her though that didn't quite feel right...

"We cannot afford to bicker among ourselves," the mysterious old vixen continued, putting herself in the middle of the commotion, "not when we have greater challenges in front of us."

"And who are you, exactly?" James asked her, more than a little suspicious.

"I am Cassandra, another one of Mr. Cooney's new friends..." she answered, taking a good long look at McCloud before adding, quietly, "He didn't mention you... strange..."

Before James could ask what was so strange, Rick stepped in, and steered James away from the others, "Jim it's... kind of a long story. I'll fill you in later. So, where's everyone else?"

As if in response, three different engines closed in all at once. One was the Havoc fighter flying overhead, along with the heavily armed shuttle from Cerberus –the one that had been sitting in the sand– flying alongside. A trio of screaming hoverbikes closed in as well: Ashk'habat and two of his cloaked riders.

"Whoa there Jimmy!" Peppy'd voice barked in over the comm. He was in Scott's Havoc fighter again, "You didn't think we were gonna let you go out here all by your lonesome, were ya?"

"I see the gang's all back together again." Rachelle observed via the same comm channel, "I've got Pigma with me on the shuttle, he's manning the guns." and at that, the turret on the hovering shuttle swiveled all the way around.

At the same time, Ashk'habat and his men dismounted, and the towering reptile approached James, with a look of great concern on his face, "You are brave to pursue your wayward comrade," he said in his raspy, accented voice, "but rash to do so alone, especially in this cursed place."

"You must be Ashk'habat." Rick observed.

"And you must be the other Cooney." The towering reptilian responded in-kind, "Your sister made mention of you, and there is resemblance between your faces."

"I get that a lot, but anyway; wayward comrade you say?" the raccoon asked.

"Scott's here, somewhere..." James explained over his shoulder, already looking around the darkened ruins, "He slipped away from us and came here on his own, going after Harrow we're pretty sure." in his brief search, the fox found patches of recently scuffled sand, leading into the entrance of the large head-shaped structure, "He's gotta be inside here–"

A sudden feeling of dread washed over James McCloud, seemingly without cause. It was like he had seen something horrible, something downright wrong, but couldn't place the source. The simple fact that he couldn't identify the fear was unsettling by itself...

_You are too late._

There was a voice, but he did not hear it in his ears. He knew this voice, heard it before, in a nightmare...

"You okay, Jim?" he heard Rick ask, and he came to his senses. He was standing right next to McCloud, looking at him with that same old patronizing look James had grown to know all too well. It was the _'I know something isn't right and you can't deny it'_ look.

_All of your efforts, your steadfast toil: it has been in vain._

"We're wasting time standing around!" James growled as he unslung the rifle strapped across his back, and stepped toward the entrance, "Come on, let's go!"

"No Jim, wait!" Rick called out.

"What?!"

When James McCloud snapped around to face Rick, he was changed. His steel blue eyes glared with a razor sharpness, brow low and solid. Rick had seen that sort of look recently, in Scott, as he was slowly gnawed at by revenge.

"Jim, just... _listen_ to me." Rick implored, trying hard not to sound pushy as he made his points, "Harrow is going to get inside your head, make you see things, hear things, feel things that aren't true. He will claw his way into your mind and find ways to confuse you, make you forget yourself, drive you insane, and Lyla only knows what else. That's what he does. That's how he takes on forces far greater than himself. That's how he has endured as long as he has, against all odds–"

"If you've got a point Rick, then make it." James spat back at the raccoon.

How to explain to him?

James hadn't had the revealing experiences that Rick and Wiley had with Cassandra: experiences that prepared them for this very encounter. As far as Richard Cooney was concerned, the young vulpine pilot simply wasn't ready to face Harrow, not any more ready than the slain Cerberus crew was. The risks here were too great: James would be a major liability going up against Harrow.

There were also the more personal reasons, ones which Rick tried to ignore...

"...That's why I _can't_ ask you to come with me after Harrow." the raccoon finally said,

There was a moment, however brief, that James seemed as though he might relent, but that moment was gone in an instant.

The fox's steely gaze only hardened as he said in a quiet grumble, "You don't have to ask."

He turned away from Rick, and simply marched right on inside the entrance on his own.

"Somehow, that guy doesn't quite strike me as the walk-away-from-a-mission type." Wiley said offhand as James disappeared into the structure.

"True, that one has a strong will, _very_ strong." Cassandra agreed.

"I _know_..." Rick said with an aggravated sigh, shaking his head, "and it's going to get him _killed_."

He stopped himself.

This wasn't the time to get frustrated by the fickle tendencies of emotionally confounded people. That's just how people work sometimes. This was instead the time to focus, time to make up a plan on the fly... What were the immediate circumstances? 1) Harrow and Scott were inside the foreboding looking structure, their current situation unknown, likely not good. 2) Jim just went inside, should be easy enough to catch up with him. 3) Cassandra and Wiley were outside, along with Ashk'habat and his two companions. 4) Above was Peppy in the Havoc fighter, along with Rachelle and Pigma in the revived assault shuttle from Cerberus. Higher above was the privateer vessel Schwarzwind, looming over the whole scene.

Time to go to work...

"Wiley, get yourself in there, now." Rick ordered, "Make sure Jim doesn't do something dumb, and... try not to provoke him."

"This just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it?" the wolf scoffed as he went inside, arming himself with the handgun at his belt.

Rick turned to Cassandra next, who seemed to already have a response.

"I cannot confront Haran directly." She began, shaking her head slowly, "He has become too powerful, too unstable, and I was never meant for battle. Yet, Haran must be stopped."

"I'm not asking you to fight." Rick assured her.

"Nor do I intend to." Cassandra confirmed, then gave the raccoon just enough of a smile to dispel any further doubts, "Do not worry, Cooney. I will do what I can to help, but I must do so from out here."

Rick gave the older Cerinian a knowing nod, and addressed the silent towering reptile next.

"Ashk'habat, Can you keep her safe until we return?" the raccoon asked, motioning toward Cassandra.

"I will guard her as I would guard my own." he assured, giving a small nod in acknowledgement.

Cassandra, Ashk'habat and his riders made their way to the landed Mercutio. The desert would get very cold very quickly at night, and they'd need the shelter.

Without missing a moment, Rick activated the small earpiece comm and tuned into the channel those flying above him were using, "Rachelle, Pigma, Peppy, I need you to regroup aboard Schwarzwind, but stay ready. If there's any nasty surprises on their way to meet us, I want you to be the first ones to punch that surprise in the gut."

"Heh, cute imagery for a dull task." Rachelle replied with a little chuckle.

"You sure y'all don't want us down there?" Peppy asked.

"I'm sure." Rick answered, then turned off his comm before adding, "I'm _very_ sure."

Cooney looked up into the now nearly black sky, watching as the two airborne spacecraft ascended away from the scene toward Schwarzwind.

Rick closed his eyes a moment, and simply listened.

With the conversations over, and the whine of engines dying away, it grew very quiet at the ruins. There was little else besides the distant rumble of Schwarzwind, and the gentle whistle of wind and blowing sand...

When he opened his eyes again, Rick was looking straight at his hallucinated duplicate –his "shadow" as Cassandra had called him– and his shadow was looking right back.

There were no words exchanged. Rick simply gave his doppelgänger a pleased little smirk, and started walking toward the entryway, where the faint bluish glow was all the more visible amidst the growing darkness. With a sense of cool-headed purpose in his step, the raccoon descended into the Krazoic structure, side-by-side with his all-too troublesome shadow.

This time, however, the doppelgänger would help in causing just the sort of trouble they'd need.

* * *

><p>Author Notes:<p>

Aaaaaand we're finally hitting the home stretch of this story arc!

Like a lot of my chapters so far, this one was going to be part of a much longer chapter, but it swelled. Besides, I want to give the upcoming climax (next chapter, I swear!) the full attention and awesomeness it deserves.

EDIT: Oh, and Jedelas' insightful review on 1/27/13 made me come to a conclusion, one that has prompted a little minor editing at a few key points, and I feel the chapter has come out better for it. Thanks a bunch Jedelas, really appreciate it!

As always, your feedback, whatever it may be, is most welcome.


	17. At the Edge of the Abyss Part I

**深淵の縁で **

_**At the Edge of the Abyss  
>Part I<strong>_

* * *

><p>James McCloud made his way cautiously through the stone corridor. It was, in a word, strange, but more than that. There was light, a strange glow that gave everything a bluish tint, but no source for the light. It simply was.<p>

The spatious stone corridor kept spiraling gently down. Its walls were intricately carved, depicting several images that archaeologists would no doubt ogle and swoon over. Whatever the case, James paid little attention to them, and continued onward, downward, inward. There was no other way Scott could have gone, so he had to be down here, somewhere.

Through it all there was a constant feeling of discomfort swirling around the fox's mind, a feeling of something very wrong, but...

Oh who was he kidding? He didn't have a clue, about anything.

He let out a frustrated sigh, and stopped for a moment, try to collect some thoughts.

Footsteps, from behind, closing in fast.

"Hey! Hold on!" that was the wolf's voice.

James turned around to see him round the bend of the gently spiraling corridor. When they were close, face to face, he spoke.

"What do you want?" the fox asked in a cold voice.

"For starters: a little less stupidity from you." Wiley answered gruffly, coming to a stop next to James, "Do you have _any _sort of a plan to deal with this guy?"

"Well what about you?" James retorted, not having an answer of his own, "For that matter, why the hell are we even on the same side? What does Rick see in you that he'd work with a filthy scumbag like you?"

"I'll be honest, I'm still trying to figure that one out." the wolf confessed with a shrug, "But as long as I've got this chance, I don't plan on wasting it."

"Chance for what, exactly?"

"To survive."

"Care to explain?"

"You said it yourself: I'm a coward, I'm scared out of my mind." Wiley explained, speaking in a sincerity he never knew he was capable of, "That's why I ran from Harrow, why I stowed away aboard Cerberus to slip away. That's why I tried to run from Rick, that two-faced bastard friend of yours. But now, I'm afraid of what'll happen if I don't face this Cerinian psycho down, and end him now while I can. That's why I'm here."

"Are you looking for sympathy?" James asked. His voice was still bitter with the wolf, but possibly subdued, "Because you're not getting any from me."

"Not sympathy." Wiley answered, shaking his head, "Just some acknowledgement that we're gunning for the same target, and that having an ally here is way better than another enemy."

James took a long, careful moment to scrutinize this person he was talking to. This wasn't the same cold-hearted stoic he'd first encountered aboard the Amity, or the isolation-crazed mess he was when aboard the drifting Cerberus. He'd changed, or at least, the image he was projecting had changed, and his actions seemed to fit.

After a while, the fox simply let out a sigh, telling Wiley, "I trust Rick, and he seems to trust you..."

"So, do we have a truce?" the pale wolf asked, extending an open hand.

"I'll do the mission: find Scott, deal with Harrow." James reached out, and held the other's hand in an iron grip, with a steeled gaze to match, "But when that's over and out of the way, I'll figure out what to do about you."

"That's all I'm asking for." Wiley responded, maybe just a little more relaxed.

"And that's all you're going to get." the fox released his hand, and was about to proceed onward when–

"Then it's a good thing that's all we need." That was Rick's voice, but neither of them heard him approach.

Both James and Wiley turned to look up the sloping corridor, and there was Rick, standing with his hands resting in his coat pockets. How in Lylat could anyone move that quietly?

"Took your sweet time back there." Wiley observed, speaking again in his usual snark, "What was the holdup?"

"Just taking care of some last-minute details with Cassandra." the raccoon answered in a vague half-truth. Wiley didn't need to know any more, no now.

"Rick, I..." James began to form some kind of apology, something to explain his earlier actions, but found himself unable to form the words for it. The fox just sort of... trailed off.

"It's alright." Rick filled in, giving him a knowing nod, "We've got work to do, and we need stay sharp."

Without another word, the three of them continued further down the gently sloping, gently curved corridor, further and further underground to an unknown fate.

\

* * *

><p>

Under less stressful circumstances, the scene outside the main viewport would have been enchanting. The gentle curve of Titania's horizon still held a deep red glow from the sun, interrupted by the great dark spot of the moon Oberon. Everything else was dark, with only the horizon glow to tell the difference between sky and ground.

Captaion Otto Jäeger paced around the Schwarzwind's bridge, restless. He had anger underneath, but it was controlled, focused, harnessed. Although, it _would_ have been harnessed, if Cooney had not been yet again relegated Schwarzwind to park-and-wait duty. As it was, the most the otter captain could do was stay alert, stay focused, and stay ready.

Rachelle Cooney was here on the bridge too, leaning against one of the bulkheads. She seemed to handle waiting in a much different way

"Captain!" the crewman at the sensory station barked, his voice sounding like a gunshot in the tense silence, "I've got something coming in fast, a cruiser."

"Boost the shields, power up systems to full combat readiness." Jäeger ordered, his voice focused, sharp, and ready.

"Aye Captain."

The crewmen executed their duties, and Schwarzwind responded while the low rumble of ship systems reverberated through the bridge.

The older otter stepped up to the bridge viewport, joined in silence by Rachelle Cooney. Both looked out side. In the distance, descending through the dark sky like a firebolt, was the telltale sign of a craft going through atmospheric reentry. It was close, and more curious was when its downward trajectory arced toward Schwarzwind.

"Can you get an ID on the ship?" Captain Jäeger asked over his shoulder.

"It's..." the sensory operator stopped for a moment, then looked up to his captain, almost disbelieving what he spoke, "Cerberus?"

At that word, Rachelle took a small gasp, and her eyes widened in a very, very rare display of surprise, however subtle.

In another instant, the entire space lurched, and the shields immediately outside flashed white as it took the brunt of a massive particle shot: Cerberus's main plasma cannon.

Captain Jäeger was already staggering away from the viewport through the bridge, spouting orders to his crew, "Bring the guns to bear and open fire! Prime missiles and get a lock..."

The otter continued on as space shifted and swerved, moving as Schwarzwind maneuvered in combat.

Rachelle stepped away from this, getting Peppy and Pigma on her comm. She got a response almost instantly.

"Rachelle?" Peppy's voice asked over the channel, "What the hell is going on–"

"Hare! You and Dengae get to your ships, now!" she ordered, and shut the channel off.

Her voice felt far more angry than it should have. She was frustrated, mostly at herself, for letting something like this be possible...

"_I can be persuaded to aid you, on certain... conditions."_

"_Name them."_

"_First: I will go with you personally to Cerberus, and restart the ship myself."_

"_Done." she agreed with a curt nod._

"_Second: when you have what you need, I keep the ship."_

"_Why?" Rachelle asked, perplexed by Noire's odd request, "What use do you have for it?"_

"_That is no concern of yours." Serge waived the question away, "You want my help: those are my terms."_

She should have known better than to trust Serge! This was one thing they seriously did not need now, and she let it happen!

She took a deep breath. Didn't need this anger, not now, keep the focus...

Rachelle tried to contact Rick on the surface through the comm, let him know what was happening topside, but there was no signal.

\

* * *

><p>

The downward spiraling corridor seemed to keep going, on and on, down and down. It was probably just an illusion, brought on by the sheer monotony of the unchanging, ever curving, ever descending. The only noticeable change they felt for sure was the temperature, which grew more and more cold as Rick, James and Wiley continued the descent.

After some time, when their breath came out in visible puffs of mist, the endless curving slope finally began to level out, and straighten out.

The corridor opened to a very large, very open space. It was lit with a similar eerie blue light as the corridor before, but there were clear sources now. Dozens of bright pints of light, held up by ornate columns in a circular arrangement at the center.

The space was definitely a natural cavern, an underground lake that stretched for hundreds of meters, and a roughly dome shaped roof overhead formed from the natural stone. The tranquil still water reflected the column-lights and cavern roof perfectly, like a vast mirror.

There was an island in the center of the still water, but it was artificial: a perfect circular platform built out of stone. This platform was joined by a single narrow stone bridge, stretching across the lake until it hit shore, where the bridge became a path of smooth paved stones. The path wound toward the entrance archway, away from the lake shore, and toward the entrance where Rick, James and Wiley had just emerged.

"Whoa..." Jame's voice, however quiet, still echoed and reverberated across the huge stone expanse, with the ring of it lingering for several seconds afterward.

It occurred to him that the might blow the element of surprise. Then again, if Harrow was psychic, he was probably well aware of their approaching anyway.

James and Wiley brought their weapons to a ready position, moving along the path in a manner much like soldiers in combat: scanning, positioning, analyzing, deciding, acting. Rick was similarly alert, but in a more passive sense, quietly eyeing the space as he moved through it.

For all intents and purposes however, they appeared to be alone. There was no sign of Scott, or Harrow here, anywhere; no sign they could immediately see, at least.

By some unspoken group consent, the three continued down the path toward the bridge. Being the most conspicuous feature of the area, it seemed as good as any a place to start.

As the party stepped onto the bridge, a series of those strange lights, similar to the large ones atop the circle of columns, lit up along the sides of the stone bridge. It seemed as if the bridge was aware of their presence, and lit the way to accommodate them.

This only made the trio more tense, knowing that their position was very likely compromised. It felt like the ideal point to strike an ambush, but on the other hand, the sheer openness of the space made a surprise ambush impractical. Anything short of a sniper would be seen long before they became a threat. Even then, a sniper would have considerable difficulty finding a perch from which to strike from.

James, Rick and Wiley continued across the bridge, constantly aware, constantly alert, waiting to hear something that might be a sign of where Harrow was. Still, this didn't stop them from speaking...

"We _do _have a plan here, right?" James quietly, almost under his breath as the trio moved.

"There's a plan." Rick confirmed, giving a small nod.

"So? What is it?" the fox pressed.

"I can't tell you."

"And why not, exactly?"

"The plan requires you both to be oblivious to its details."

"Oh, well, that's just _brilliant._" James hissed, rolling his eyes.

"Cerinian psychic shenanigans, kid." Wiley indicated, tapping his forehead.

"Because Harrow's going to get in our heads, and..." the fox began to realize, "Riiiight..."

Seeing the understanding dawn on him, the raccoon gave James a knowing little smile, confirming without words the thoughts he was thinking.

After a short time, they soon neared the central platform, a perfect circle some thirty meters across. At the center however was something else: a large hoop, about five meters across, held upright. It looked like it might have been some kind of gateway, but there wasn't anything on the other side of it, just the other half of the platform–

Harrow was there.

The Cerinian was just standing there, directly in front of the circular gate-like structure, arms crossed, greeting the trio with an impatient stare, as if to say, "What took you so long?"

James and Wiley immediately brought their weapons up, and were about to open fire when, without any words, Harrow simply stepped backward through the hoop structure. When he did, something unexpected and utterly bizarre happened. The area inside the hoop blurred, shimmered, and made visible "ripples" where Harrow went through, very much like disturbed water.

The ripples died down, the shimmering ceased, and the blurriness became clear once again. Harrow wasn't there anymore. He was gone.

"What the hell just happened?" James asked in a quiet, but still very astonished voice. "Where did he go?"

After a few silent, tense moments, Wiley stepped toward the hoop structure, very cautious, moving slowly, but deliberately. When he came within arm's reach, the wolf reached his hand, very carefully, through the hoop. His widened, and took in a small gasp of breath, as the area around his hand started to show that same shimmering, rippling blur.

He pulled his hand back quickly, and for several moments, he just stared at it, flexing his fingers. "I've... never seen anything like this before."

"You two need to follow him through." Rick told them as he stepped up, scrutinizing the... portal? Apart from his voice becoming almost a deadpan monotone, Cooney didn't seem the least bit fazed by the strange happenings.

"What about you?" James asked him, "Aren't you going in?"

"Yes, but I'll join you later..." Seeing that neither of them understood how that'd work, Rick looked to the fox, saying, "It's part of the plan."

James just gave a grumbling sigh as he looked up at the strange gateway structure, weary, uncertain, but also determined.

"Look, Jim, you're just going to have to trust me..."

Looking straight ahead, through his habitual steely eyed gaze, the fox simply gave a slow nod, and tightened his grip on the assault rifle in his hands. Then, in deathly silence, James McCloud stepped forward, into the gate. His form was overtaken by the shimmering, rippling blur as he crossed the threshold, and then disappeared entirely, exactly as Harrow had before.

Wiley went forward to follow, but paused just a moment, saying to Rick over his shoulder, "I sure as shit hope you know what you're doing."

Then the white wolf followed suit, disappearing into the strange gateway's shimmering mist.

\

* * *

><p>

When James stepped through the "gate", his vision was overwhelmed by a bright, white nothing. In his ears he heard a ceaseless, almost frantic whispering of countless voices, all speaking at once, but none speaking in a language he recognized.

He couldn't be sure how long that moment lasted; a few seconds, a few minutes, more? What he did notice is when the voices quieted down, when the whispers faded into the distant background. At the same time, the white nothing in his vision cleared, showing instead an endless pale gray horizon in all directions. There seemed to be a thick mist around his feet, covering the solid-feeling ground for as far as he could see. The flat gray void also had at many points what looked like ancient, broken ruins. Their architecture looked similar to the Krazoic structures seen earlier, but made with a much more pale stone, like marble.

He couldn't help noticing how eerily similar this place looked and felt: like a dream, an illusion.

But this was real. His body was here. he could feel the ground beneath his feet, could breathe in he air, could feel the grip of the assault rifle in his hand. He had everything on his person that he took with him: rifle, sidearm, knife, spare magazine clips, even a few grains of crusted Titania sand that shook off with each step he took.

Strange as this place was, this was no time to lose focus. Harrow had to be here, somewhere...

James approached one of the nearby structures, rifle up and ready, eyes alert.

When he came closer, he saw there was a body on the ground, slumped against the broken wall. It was a terrier, with dark fur, wearing a khaki colored flight suit. A sword lay on the ground by his side, by his empty hand.

"Scott?"

The fox rushed toward him, and checked for vitals as soon as he reached him. There was a pulse, but it was erratic. The terrier's breath came either in short shallow gasps, it or it was long and drawn-out. His eyes twitched beneath his closed eyelids, like he might've been dreaming, only the dream was a nightmare.

"Scott!" James said as he shook Scott's shoulder, desperation in his voice, "Wake up, dammit!"

The terrier stirred at this. His breathing became steady, and the rest of his body eased out of its twitching state. When he looked up at James, his eyes had opened, but they were wrong. Instead of the hot-blooded vigor typical of Scott, there was instead a blank ghostly sterility. Then a pair of pale blue points slowly lit up inside his eyes, and the terrier's vacant gaze fell upon James.

"I told you: you were too late." Scott uttered, is voice tired, weary, and devoid of emotion.

James could only stare slack-jawed at what was happening. He'd seen this before, but it was the stuff of his nightmares, like when he "saw" Captain Soyuz, not something real. So, was this place _actually_ real? Was all this really happening? It all felt real enough, but it was also wrong, very wrong.

"You simply couldn't leave well enough alone, could you?" a new voice said, nearby.

He knew this voice. It was the one that had mocked him inside his head on more than one occasion now, in dreams...

The fox shot to his feet, and trained the assault rifle in his hands on the direction of the new voice: Harrow's. The Cerinian was just standing there, arms crossed, leaning against the broken white structure, and looking at James with a sickening look of disdain. He'd wipe that smirk off his face, once and for all–

Right before James could pull the trigger, right before he would've unleashed a deadly torrent of blaster-fire, he felt something small and hard press against the small of his back: a blaster barrel?

_* Blam! *_

A shot rang out, loud, directly behind James McCloud, making his ears ring like a bell. When he looked down, where there should have been a gaping exit wound, there was nothing, and no searing pain either.

Then there was a dull _thump, _a clatter of a fallen firearm,and a couple of grunts. James flinched and turned behind him, where he saw that suspicious pale wolf, locked and grappling with Scott on the ground.

"What the _hell _are you doing!?" the fox demanded, nearly raising his weapon up.

"Saving your ass, that's what!" the wolf spat back, trying to work Scott into a joint lock, "This bastard almost blasted your spine in two!"

James scanned the ground, and found a loose handgun on the ground: an Aran arms HC-670 high-powered blaster, Scott's sidearm of choice. So it was true then, Scott had nearly killed him, and this... _murder _had just saved his life. But that couldn't be right, Scott couldn't have been in his right mind, not the way those bizarre lights in his eyes were, are, and the way he spoke–

"Don't just stand there _gawking!_" the wolf shouted, struggling against Scott's ferocity, "Give me a hand with him!"

James shook his head, working to regain some composure in the situation. They could restrain Scott at least, knock him unconscious for now until, everything could get sorted out–

He stopped, having heard a quiet footstep behind him, and far too close for comfort. The fox whipped around behind him, assault rifle raised and ready to blast Harrow full of holes–

It wasn't Harrow. It was Chakori, crouched in a combat stance with her knife in one hand, but with a pair of eerie blue lights in her slitted feline eyes.

In that split-second of hesitation, the ashen leopardess leapt at James, closing the short distance between them in an instant. He managed to bring the rifle up to block the knife strike, redirecting her momentum off to one side. She'd grabbed hold of the butt-stock with her free hand though, and wasted no time using it as leverage. Chakori hacked with her heavy kinfe at the fox's hand holding the rifle's barrel, but he let go before the blade found its target. Nevertheless, it gave Chakori the opening she needed to yank on the butt-stock, and claim the rifle for her own–

James gave the rifle up, but not without a backup plan. Just as Chakori pulled the weapon's trigger one-handed, the fox redirected the rifle barrel away from him with one arm. Then he drew his own knife from the scabbard on his belt and made a slash at her arm. The blade cut, not very deep, but enough to force Chakori to drop the rifle.

Before James could grab hold of the falling weapon though, Chakori had already dropped down and spun into a low sweep kick, knocking the fox off his feet and onto his back with a dull _thud_.

The leopardess dove down after him, cleaving the air with her knife with McCloud as her target. James shoved himself to the side, and Chakori's blow flew right past his ear. He grabbed hold of her wrist and made a slash at her arm, intending to disabler her weapon hand. Chakori slammed a knee into his kidney, interrupting the fox's blow and forcing him to release her. James rolled out and away, but not before Chakori landed a long slash down his chest and stomach. It wasn't a deep cut, didn't feel like anything vital, but it leaked a steady stream of blood. The fast movement of close-quarters combat would only make it worse.

Back on his feet, the fox backed off, putting pressure on his wound while his clothes and arm were steadily being soaked with his own blood.

"Chakori, it's James. You remember me, right?" The fox tried reminding "You hooked Vixy and I up back on Cerberus. You embarrassed the heck out of me when you did it too."

She simply ignored his words, and came at him again.

James fought back as well as he could, dodging, blocking, redirecting. He didn't want to hurt Chakori, not if he could help it, but there wasn't much choice. The best he could do would be to subdue the leopardess for now, but that would be far easier said than done. Chakori was a far more experienced martial artist than McCloud, and didn't seem to have any qualms at the moment with gutting him...

He started to realize something.

_This_ –Chakori under some sort of influence– was what Scott saw and had to deal with when he came here alone. _This_ must have been what changed Scott into the ghostly blank husk under that same influence. It was something Harrow had done, and could do again.

And then it dawned on James just how dangerous being here, in this strange otherworldly place, might actually be.

\

* * *

><p>

Harrow left the fray of combat to reflect, to observe, to meditate on the situation.

The thralls will keep the two intruders occupied for the moment; they'd break soon, or they'd die. It was regrettable, but they'd forced his hand and left him with little choice. He'd spare their lives if could, but both were stubborn and strong-willed. Even Makita, who had been easily broken and manipulated before, had strengthened his resolve greatly, and with far more than the simple drive for revenge. He must have met with someone, and had his path altered...

Interesting.

The other one –the pilot McCloud, warrior of the stars– seemed simpler at first. His will was relentless, stronger than any of the others, but he couldn't bring it to full strength here. Confusion and disorientation had dampened the engine of his iron will, and there was nothing on which for him to focus. The fact that he was fighting a former ally only added to his discomfort. So long as he remained in this state, he would break.

All a matter of time now, a short time.

The core of the recent problems should emerge soon. Harrow had lured them here, caused very many issues for this threat, and given them plenty of reason to pursue. This was intended. Once the center catalyst of the threat emerged, a solution would emerge in the moment alongside it. There was no need to construct complex plans for an unknown threat; better to improvise in the moment with what is available...

Harrow felt another presence approach from behind, at an easy walking pace. This mind was different: calm and composed on the outside, but meticulous and calculating beneath the clean surface. In some ways, this mind resembled the processes of the computing machines: clear, concise, absolute, with a memory like an archive, and an ever-alert awareness. Further beneath the flurry of this one's active analytical mind though, there may have been something deeper, something darker, perhaps?

"I know you're there." The Cerinian finally said aloud, sensing the presence approach close.

The proximity made reading the thoughts easier, and Harrow briefly skimmed through the recent memories occupying the forefront of this one's thoughts. 'Richard Cooney' was his name: an agent, a spy, liar, a manipulator, a saboteur...

He turned around, slowly, and saw the raccoon standing a few paces away. He was quite calm, with his hands resting in the pockets of his knee-length coat.

"You are the one who has been hunting me, the one who set these terrible events in motion: the Meddler." Harrow observed.

"That's right." Rick replied with a nod, and stepped closer, "And I've been anxious to finally meet you face-to-face."

"Well, we've met." Harrow observed, matching Cooney's gaze, "So what exactly do you hope to accomplish now, Meddler?"

"What about you?" the raccoon questioned, "Most people don't go to the extraordinary lengths you have without a cause, so what's yours?"

"Why do you care?" The Cerinian was skeptical. Rick's intentions were tangled, muddled in the complexities of his thoughts, but it wasn't far-fetched as to what his reasons likely were. "You came in pursuit of _'justice'_."

"I came in pursuit of _answers._" Rick corrected.

"Hmph." Harrow scoffed, rolling his eyes.

Cooney simply continued on, unfazed, "I know you were meant for better things than this, Haran."

"You know _nothing._" Harrow snapped back, startled. How could he know that name?

"I know you were about to named the Guardian, 'Cerinjyan' of your clan on Cerinia. I know you were exiled for the murder of a colonist, and I know the trial and decisions behind your exile were controversial. I know that in your exile you trained under Serge Noire, and then made a mercenary of yourself."

Everything the raccoon said was true of Harrow once, but how? Where did he learn of all that? The Cerinian probed his mind further, searching through the archives of his memories. In a few moments, the answer presented itself.

"So, you've spoken with Khesýra, or 'Cassandra' as she pretends to be now." the woman's name came out sounding bitter when Harrow spoke it, and she deserved no less.

"I did," Cooney said with a nod, "and she's very worried about you, as am I now."

"Is that so?" Harrow questioned, almost in a mocking tone, "You should be more worried for those you brought with you."

"I trust they can handle themselves." Rick dismissed with a shrug, "This is between you and me."

His nonchalant attitude was false, a mere mask, and Harrow said as much, "Your sarcasm and false apathy betray you."

"And maybe that's true, but I still just want to talk with you, to understand what it is you're trying to do." the raccoon insisted, "My curiosity far outweighs my anger, surely you can feel that."

Harrow clawed into Cooney's mess of a mind, with every intent to unravel the lie he was spinning.

His thoughts were many, and all happening simultaneously. Some portion of his mind was always making environmental assessments, always aware of his immediate surroundings and making notes of what may come in useful. Another portion of his thoughts operated on a somewhat larger scale, keeping track of other events, of other people. These were simply automatic processes for Cooney, the mechanical act of thinking and keeping track. Harrow needed to go deeper to find the underlying emotions that drove this Meddler, that motivated him to hunt and pursue...

There was anger, though it was more like a disgusted resentment, and it was buried. Richard Cooney stored away his hatred like a mere item in his archival mind, disregarding it, but still holding onto it for future reference. This wasn't a motivating factor though. The anger was locked up, kept away so not to disrupt the smooth and efficient mechanisms of the Meddler's analytical mind.

There was the insatiable inquisitiveness that Cooney insisted was his motivation; a desire to understand the unfathomable, a sort of morbid interest. It did dominate the forefront of his mind, almost overwhelmingly so. Such inquisitive behavior and desire for knowledge however was simply a means for Cooney though, not an end. Knowledge as an end was typically the driving force for bookish scholars, not for a Meddler who dares to lie, to manipulate, to take others' lives into his hands and send them into impossible and unthinkable tasks.

Beneath all that, connected at the center of this churning maelstrom, Harrow expected to find a desire for power, for control over others, as it was for Garmir, or perhaps even the mere thrill of trickery, as it was for Serge. While the trickster's thrill certainly was there, and was highly indulged by Cooney, it was not a base motivating factor...

And there it was.

It was the genuine desire to protect the lives of others, the 'Inner Guardian' as it is sometimes referred to by Cerinians. Cooney's skills and talents at trickery simply were more befitting of a manipulating Meddler than a more direct archetype.

Perhaps, at the core, they were not so different from each other after all, only the means by which their Inner Guardians manifested were different. So perhaps, as another who has had to do unthinkable acts in service to his Inner Guardian, he could understand why he did what he has done.

Harrow retracted from the raccoon's mind, and the two of them were stood eye-to-eye in reality once more. The Cerinian looked on Cooney, showing him something he hadn't shown in a very long time: respect.

"So, you want your answers, Meddler?" Harrow said, and made a wide gesture around the space, indicating the wispy white dream-like realm where they stood, "Look around: what do you see?"

"It's... a very strange place, one that I don't really understand." Rick answered, gazing out across the white void.

"This place –everything you see here– it is a vessel that contains a Power." Harrow began, speaking in a calm, solemn tone, "The Saurians call it 'Krazoa', my people call it 'Cerin', both words translate into your language as 'Spirit'. Yet in all practicality, no word is truly sufficient to describe what is housed here and in similar places. It is something far older than my kind, or the Saurians, or those who live in Lylat. This Power has the capacity to transcend mind, space, and even the flow of time itself."

"What does this have to do with what you've done?" Rick asked.

"Everything." the Cerinian said plainly, and turned his back to Cooney as he explained, "In this place, through the Power that dwells here, I was given a vision: a glimpse of the future."

"And what did you see?"

There was a few moments where there was nothing, just silent stillness between them. Then Harrow's head dropped down low. When he finally spoke, it was in a grim, trembling voice, "I saw... the end of my people..." the agony in his words, it sounded as if he was being wracked by some hidden torture, "I saw my world _die!_"

Harrow turned back around quickly. His face had contorted into a furious snarl, and his eyes gleamed bright, like a pair of pale blue headlights–

Rick's vision flashed white for an instant, only for his senses to be overrun by an avalanche of terror, of fear, and of anger, and outrage. Then there were the screams, so many of them, hundreds or more all crying out in what sounded like their dying throes.

Images flashed through his vision now, too fast to see much detail. Some were of people, running, or fighting hopelessly, dying, or worse. Some had fires, and there was the smell of charred flesh, and the sting of electricity in the air. There were other things, some strange objects that Rick couldn't recognize, angular... what the hell were they?

_Tell me, Meddler, if you had foreseen _this_ happen to _your_ home, to _your_ family and friends, would you not do _everything_ in your power to make sure it did not happen? Would you not go to _any_ lengths necessary to stop it? Would you not be forever haunted by these vivid images of death and destruction if you did _nothing?

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><p>Author Notes:<p>

I had originally meant for this chapter to be longer, hence the "Part I", but like many things it swelled, and I felt like I wanted to encapsulate this part in an easily readable size, and finish it all up later. The climax climax is coming! I promise! It'll all be in the next part!

As always, your feedback is most welcome.


	18. At the Edge of the Abyss Part II

Hey there! Thanks for sticking with me for this unexpectedly long wait between chapters. I didn't mean it to go on this long, I swear!

Anyways, if you need to (veteran readers especially) I highly recommend maybe skimming through the last chapter or two to refresh your memory of them. If you're a new reader just jumping in, then welcome! And I hope you took a break or two, so not to be too exhausted from the marathon-reading.

That's enough from me. There's a chapter that needs reading!

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><p>He could feel it now.<p>

The cut along his chest and stomach was getting worse under the strain of combat. His clothes were ripping away more where the knife had cut, showing more of his wound, the wound that kept on bleeding out. With each breath James took in, another stream of blood left him. It wasn't an immediately vital wound, at least for now. If he didn't get it treated though, it would worsen, and become a real hazard.

But he couldn't treat the wound, not now, not while the more immediate threat of Chakori was still there.

James McCloud kept up with the ashen leopardess as well as he could. He redirected her knife blows away, but she kept coming at him with more attacks: a kick, a punch, a knee, an elbow. Still, he dodged, evaded, counterattacked. None of his strikes found no purchase though: Chakori evaded and counterattacked each time, forcing the fox back on the defensive. As Jame's strength ebbed away, his reflexes slowed, and she became faster than him, stronger than him, more precise than him...

He was outmatched, but he wouldn't let that stop him. He had to keep on fighting–

James took a heavy blow to his chest: a blazing-quick kick, sending him reeling backward, off balance. Chakori rushed at him, then ducked low as she executed some kind of sliding sweep kick. She caught the fox at his ankle as he staggered, and completely eliminated what little balance he had left. In another instant, James collapsed to the ground with a heavy _thump. _

No sooner than McCloud had landed, Chakori was upon him again. She came down with a knee, meant to crush Jame's stomach in, but he managed to wedge the knee strike aside with a quick wrench of his arm. Chakori simply came again, slashing at the fox's face with her knife. He intercepted the strike with a knife-slash of his own, slicing at her wrist. The blade cut into her, slicing something important –a tendon perhaps – and she couldn't keep a grip on her knife anymore.

Chakori's forward-deflected knife clattered to the ground next to them, but she wasn't stopped. Instead, she simply used the same momentum, and smashed her bleeding forearm against Jame's throat.

"_Errhkf–_" James let out a sputtering cough at the sudden and painful spike of pressure. When the reflexes tried to take another breath though, no air could get in. No air, no breath, no oxygen, no energy... No living.

The fox swung his knife up at Chakori in a desperate strike, but he found his weapon hand had been pinned down by one of Chakori's feet. He struggled to free his hand, but try as he might, he simply didn't have the strength or leverage to wedge himself free from the bind.

Jame's eyes widened in a sudden panic, and all he saw looking back was the blank, emotionless stare from what Chakori Uncia had become. It was such a hopeless look in her eyes, one that had submitted, had given up, had accepted how useless life had become. James could almost relate now; in a matter of seconds, he'd black out from lack of oxygen, lack of blood-flow to his head–

No! he couldn't give up not now! There had to be a way out, there always is... Sidearm! Of course! He still had his handgun tucked in the holster on his thigh... his right thigh. Jame's right hand was pinned down, and couldn't reach. Chakori was on top of him, pinning him down, so his left hand couldn't reach either...

James formed his free left hand into a fist, and struck at the leopardess. It was useless: his strength was waning fast, and he couldn't generate enough force to so much as touch Chakori, let alone subdue her. Still, the fox felt around with his free left hand for something, anything at all that might help. There had to be _something–_

The tips of his fingers brushed up against something hard. It was made of metal, with a few smaller bits... It was a blaster! It must've been the one Scott dropped earlier! There was still hope! In one final effort, James clawed and grasped at the blaster with all the strength and sheer will he could still muster. He felt his hand close around the weapon's grip, willed all the strength he had left to lift the hefty handgun off the ground and–

The blaster was gone, torn from Jame's feeble grip, or maybe it fell. Point was, there was no longer any weapon in his hand, nor the strength to even use one if there was. All that was left was that blank, ghastly feline face staring down at him, watching him as his eyes began to fail...

The fox's vision faded away, and his thoughts slowed... until they stopped.

There was nothing now.

\

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><p><strong>深淵の縁で <strong>

**At the Edge of the Abyss  
>Part II<strong>

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><p>

Nothing.

That was it: nothing.

It was a calm nothing, a tranquil nothing, a relaxing, restful nothing. It could be meditated to, succumbed to.

_Awaken._

The nothing was disturbed, like someone had thrown a stone into a pool pf calm water–

_Awaken!_

The nothing stirred. Something rose out of the churning depths, distorting and obliterating this sacred stillness, shattering the mirror for reflection.

"_David!_" the voice sounded so desperate, pleading for dear life "David Aberdeen, I know you're in there! Open the door, _please!_ I need your help!"

The desperate voice was followed by a frantic pounding, at the door.

He was sitting at a table, a dining room table. There was a plate of his mother's food in front of him: a simple meal, but it held many memories...

This was a memory.

There were others at the table with him: canid man and woman, both terrier types... his parents.

His father stood up from the table, and started toward the front door. He had a weary, worried look to him. He'd seen that look on his face so many times...

"David," his mother implored, "don't–"

"I'll handle it, Agnes." his father interrupted quietly, giving her a slow, affirming nod.

Scott felt unsure. Who was this guy at the door? Why was he so desperate? Why did it make his mother so afraid, and his father so weary? Mom wasn't watching, she was trying very hard to distract herself from the coming scene, and just stared at the food in front of her. All Scott cold do was watch the front door, watch his father, and what would happen when he opened the door.

The front door slid open, and another jumped inside and shut the door behind him. He was a taller black and brown terrier canid, or schnauzer. The wire-furred types were all common enough to the Gaedel region of Corneria, but that's not what what stood out. He wore military style camouflage pattern trousers, with sturdy boots and a simple black top, like one of those GLA fighters Scott had seen here and there.

"What are you doing here, Liam?" Scott's father asked, "What have you stepped your boots into this time?"

The newcomer looked worried, tense, constantly looking around, listening. He took his breaths in deep heaving gasps, like he'd been running as fast as he could for a while. Was he running away from something?

"It's nothing." Liam insisted in a breathless, exhausted voice, "I just need a place here to crash for a bit."

"You seem a bit more desperate than mere 'nothing'." David observed as he crossed his arms across his chest, not fooled by the other's blatant lie, "You've got the Loyalists buggering after you, don't you?"

"It's not that bad, really." Liam tried to assure.

All David gave in response was a sigh, a shake of his weary head, and a reprimand, "I told you this is how it'd be, Liam. I _warned_ you."

"All I need is to lay up here for the night, and I'll be gone afterward, that's it–"

"I can't get involved in this... bloody _revolt _of yours!" the older terrier snapped back, making a wide gesture to Scott and Agnes at the dinner table, "I have my family to look after!"

"But I'm your _friend!_ I'm practically family as it is!" a desperate pleading took over Liam's voice and face, begging his old friend not to let him down, to put up with him one more time, "I'm not asking you to get involved, David. I just want to spend a quiet, pleasant evening here, that's it."

Scott could only watch as their discussion came to an impasse, as Liam, one of the hardened rebel fighters, pleaded desperately with his own father, a simple family man. It kind of looked a little pathetic to the teenage terrier: Liam looking to his father with such desperation, such fear, while David responded with a cold look, almost indifferent in his stony glare. Dad wouldn't leave him out in the cold, would he? That's not his way...

After a few moments leaving Liam hanging, David Aberdeen stepped away from the front door, a resigned look on his dark features. He stopped, and dropped his shoulders down with a sigh, "Fine." he conceded in a huff, "One night, Liam –one night only– and then you leave."

The newcomer's face lit up, so relieved at hearing this, and rushed to David's side, "Thank you David–"

Liam's gratitude was cut short though, by stern words from David, "You're going downstairs into the cellar for the night, out of sight."

The older terrier pointed out a small, unassuming door on the other side of the kitchen, and Liam started for it immediately, "Not a problem–"

David grabbed Liam's shoulder as he passed, stopping him, "And you will stay absolutely _silent_. Understand?" his words bore a hard edged tone of warning, and his brow pinched over his eyes in a piercing glare. He'd used this tone with Scott before: stern words of warning to his son if he suspected mischief might be afoot.

Liam nodded, understanding exactly what David wanted. When the older terrier finally released him, he proceeded straight downstairs into the house's cellar. His footsteps were awfully quiet too, almost silent, even though he was wearing those military style boots... how did he have such a quiet step?

Scott's dad walked slowly back to the dinner table. His eyes were downcast, and he was rubbing his forehead, like he'd just been hit with a terrible headache.

"You can't be serious about keeping him here, David." mom protested as she stood up, "He'll be nothing but trouble for us."

"I may not approve of Liam's choices, but he's still a friend, and he is still our guest." David insisted in a low voice. He took an empty plat and went about loading it up with a serving of the food from the table, "I will not have the hospitality of this house tarnished, especially not toward a friend in need."

"But at the expense of our safety?!" Agnes demanded.

David didn't respond right away. He simply handed the plate laden with the family's dinner to Scott, to whom he instructed, "Be a good lad and bring this down for Liam."

The teenage terrier nodded as he accepted the plate, and left the table, heading toward the cellar. Scott heard mom and dad start arguing as he stepped further away. Mom was worried for the family, and demanded that Liam leave, while dad wearily insisted he knew what he was doing. Most of their arguments were something like that, and Scott had just come to accept their heated exchanges like the wind and rain. It always happened, and it always passed.

In any case, Scott was a little grateful he didn't need to be awkwardly caught in the middle of mom and dad's argument, that he was given a task away from them while they got their disagreements out of their systems. However, the teenage Scott was also curious about this Liam guy. The young terrier had a few vague images of someone he's seen a few times that looked like him, but nothing really solid, and nobody who seemed like one of the GLA fighters.

Scott entered the cellar, descending the familiar staircase down. It became colder down here, very quickly. The light was already on, revealing a wider space, packed with a variety of items in storage. There was some long-term food storage just at the base of the stairs, some long-forgotten boxes, along with a few bits of neglected furniture. Scott found Liam on one such languishing chair.

The brown-and-black terrier, or schnauzer, leaned forward on the edge of his seat, fidgeting with his empty hands. He bolted upright when Scott came down, almost like he flinched at an expected enemy. He relaxed though when he saw that it was only Scott, with a plate of the family's dinner in his hand.

"We sent you down some supper." Scott said dryly as he handed the plate to Liam.

"Thanks..." the other said, accepting the food. He glanced up at Scott, looking him over for a few moment, and let out an amused chuckle. "I remember when you weren't more than a wee pup in your ma's arms. You've grown up pretty well it looks, even got your dad's stubborn scowl."

"Yeah, _everyone_ says that." Scott drawled back, rolling his eyes. It was an incredibly obvious observation; anyone who's known Scott and his family tended to say things like that.

"Sorry, didn't mean anything by it..." That was probably true. It seemed like Liam was just trying to relieve his restless tension with a little small-talk. After looking at the food in his hands a couple moments though, his tone became much more somber and grave, "David didn't have to do this, you know."

"Why not?" Scott asked.

"It's really not my place to spring a heap of troubles on your father the way I have." Liam explained, "It puts everyone here at risk, and you deserve better than that. By all rights, you shouldn't have to put up with my recklessness, and I doubt Sean would approve of me doing this either."

"My dad's doing this because your a friend to him, and because you're a guest of our home." the young terrier tried to assure. He wasn't so much interested in his dad's reasons, but rather in Liam's reasons: why he came here at all, what he does for the GLA and why.

"Yeah, I know. I was counting on that deep-caring stubbornness of David's when I came here." he pointed downward, indicating the house. Liam took a moment, looking around, thinking about something, and further explained, "Your dad doesn't want me doing this, you know –going out there to fight for our due justice– doesn't want to see me hurt. After I've eaten his food and rested under his roof a few hours, I expect he'll come down here, and to convince me to quit fighting for the GLA again. So even though he knows the risks, he put me up for the night anyways. He'll feel that I owe him, and I really do, but..." he hung his head, and let out a tired sigh, "I _have _to do this, I _have _to fight."

Liam still looked uneasy here, in this house, with Scott watching him. He looked like he'd be uneasy doing anything though, that he wouldn't be truly comfortable doing much of anything. For a while, it seemed like he wouldn't even eat the food that was given him, that he'd just stare at it uncomfortably all evening.

"Why _do _you have to fight, exactly?" Scott finally asked.

Liam looked up at Scott, and gave the young terrier a curious, scrutinizing look. He didn't have an answer right away, no immediate response. The question seemed to make him even more uncomfortable and uncertain than he'd been before...

Liam looked away from Scott for a moment, then back again. He had his answer, "It's because–"

* _Thunk * _

It came from upstairs. The front door?

"They're here." Liam said quickly. He wasn't tense anymore, but active, determined, in motion. He got up, leaving the plate of food where he sat before.

"Who?" Scott asked, suddenly concerned.

"The damned _Loyalists._" Liam spat out, with a bitter venomous sting to his words.

"You don't know that."

"Maybe, but I'd prefer be paranoid and wrong, rather than optimistic and dead." Liam drew a blaster and prepped it easily, on reflex, like someone who'd been rigorously trained.

"What're you going to–"

"Here. Take this and go back upstairs." he handed Scott a box of... flour, it turned out to be when he looked down at it. "And act natural." Liam instructed.

Scott was confused, worried, and even a little scared... a lot scared.

"Go!" Liam ordered.

And the young, nearly trembling terrier did so, up the stairs back toward the kitchen.

As he went further up, he could hear someone speaking, someone he hadn't heard before, "We're on the lookout for a very dangerous man: Liam Korvyn." Someone _was _looking for Liam! Were these the Loyalists? What were they doing? His parents weren't hurt, were they? "We received a tip that he might be in the area, so we've been going door-to-door, making sure everyone is alright, asking if anyone's seen him around."

"I assure you, I would never allow such dangerous people into _my_ home." David insisted, adamant in his words.

"I don't recall us asking if Mr. Korvyn was here..." another new voice responded, with a certain tone of insidious curiosity.

"I haven't anything for you: no information, no clues to the whereabouts of this... Liam fellow." dad sounded a little more on-edge now, a little less certain,

"So you won't mind if we hang around here for a bit then, will you?" the first unknown speaker asked, "We've been on our search for hours, and could do with a short rest."

He remembered Liam's instructions: go back upstairs, act natural... Scott reached for the door, went to open it... he couldn't. He was too afraid: afraid of what the others might do. But why would they be afraid? For all the know, Scott could've gone down to the cellar to get the box of flour he was holding. This would work. He'd be okay. No need to panic...

Scott opened the door, and saw two strangers standing in the kitchen, each in khaki trench-coats and a white armband on their left arm. They both flinched when the cellar door opened–

"There!"

"It's an ambush!"

They both reached into their coats and quickly armed themselves with a blaster each, took aim at the terrified young terrier, and–

"Scott! NO!"

* _Blam!_ *

That was David's voice, his dad's...

* _Thunp_ *

A limp form landed right in front of Scott, at his feet: a person... it was...

"Dad?" he said, in a feeble, quivering voice.

He wasn't moving. He just laid there. Staring back up at the ceiling with that blank, horrified expression... There were holes in his chest: two deep, dark smoldering ones. Then Scott smelled the charred odor of burnt flesh slam his senses, along with the realization. His dad was dead...

Dead. Gone. Passed on. Just like that, in an instant...

He crumpled down there, right over his father's still-warm body, and broke. 'Broken' was the only way he remembered it. He realized he would never hear his father's assured voice again, that he'd never be on the receiving end of his well-intention scoldings anymore, that he'd never have his comforting words of encouragement to help him through...The pain that struck Scott, the agony he endured, the merciless torrent of raw emotional distress could only have been summed up as 'broken'.

There were vague images of a confrontation immediately afterward, of a fierce fight, of Liam supposedly being a 'hero' then, but Scott wasn't apart of it. He'd just been broken then, completely and utterly broken.

_You, Shall, Awaken!_

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><p>

Cassandra was completely exhausted when she lost the link, when she was subjected to Scott's greatest, most deeply buried pain. It took its toll, digging up the painful secrets people bury deep within themselves, and then feeling what they feel as they reenact it. Scott's internal turmoil obliterated Cassandra's mental focus entirely, but hopefully it would also obliterate Haran's smothering hold on him, and jar him from that horrid puppet-state.

She was aboard Cooney's shuttle, and had fallen face-down on the small spacecraft's floor. She felt weak, tired, barely aware of her surroundings... she heard heavy footsteps rush toward her, and a strong, worried voice.

"Are you alright?" That was Ashk'habat. His large reptilian form had knelt down beside her, and was helping her up.

"I have done... what I can." It took a lot of effort for Cassandra to get those words out, far more than she'd expected–

* _Boom!_ *

The aging Cerinian flinched at hearing that muffled sound. It sounded a bit like a great storm had overcome the sky, but the sounds were not thunder, nor lightning, nor the ripping of the wind.

"What is that sound?" she asked.

"There is a battle outside." Ashk'habat informed as he helped Cassandra to a a better place to rest, "Two space cruisers overhead: one that you arrived in, and another that arrived later."

\

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><p>

* _Blam!_ *

A blaster shot, very nearby. That was the first thing James McCloud heard, but it felt like his hearing had been stifled, like he had a pair of earplugs in...

He found he could breathe now, and took in a huge gasping lungful of air. His throat still hurt a lot though, and that breath he took ended up as a fit of rough coughs. It wracked his wounded body, which he could feel now: many bruises, possibly a few cracked ribs, and very sore overall. His vision was gradually returning too, but all he could see for a few moments was the same hazy gray he'd seen before as he stared straight upward.

Someone grabbed the fox's hand in a firm grip, and pulled him upright. It was a much darker figure, but Jame's head was still swimming, and his vision was still coming into focus... It was Scott!

James immediately felt relieved, seeing his comrade again, and felt his spirits rise... A moment later he remembered the eyes, the ghastly blank look Scott had, and that he'd tried to kill James mere minutes earlier... but, no. Scott didn't have the eyes anymore, nor was his expression blank–

There was something at the fox's side, or rather, someone: a gray furred leopardess... it was Chakori. James was fighting her, while she was under that glowy-eyed influence. She'd pinned him down during their fight, being that much better a fighter than James, and that's when he blacked out.

Chakori wasn't moving, and the smell: burnt flesh. James turned her limp form over, and found a large blackened and smoking hole blasted through the side of her head. She was dead.

The still recovering fox turned back to Scott, and found the the terrier had the blaster in his hand, but his hand was trembling. His stance was weak, hunched over, defeated. In place of the fiery rage he once had, or the blank nothing from earlier, Scott now looked completely destroyed, drained of everything he had left.

"Scott?" James asked, looking back and forth between him and Chakori, "Did you–"

All Scott gave in response was to look up at James, silently, through worn out eyes.

"You're alright!" another shouted: the white wolf, while he rushed up alongside Scott. He looked a little worse for wear, with a nasty bruise on his eye, but otherwise seemed to be in pretty good shape for the moment, if a little surprised. "He broke free from me all of a sudden, gave this lump..." the wolf pointed out his eye, "I heard the shot, and just thought–" he stopped when saw Chakori's body, slumped forward, and an understanding quickly dawned on him.

Scott had broken free from whatever hold he was under, broke away from the wolf in their scuffle, and shot Chakori dead after James had blacked out. And the blaster James almost had –the one ripped from his failing grip– that was Scott too. Now though, the dark terrier was in no shape to do much of anything. Gunning down Chakori, his own trusted teammate, must have been devastating to him, but he did it anyway, and saved Jame's life, again...

The fox stepped forward, face-to-face with Scott, and asked, "Are you going to be okay?"

He just looked at James, silently. Now that they were much closer together, he could see that Scott was barely holding it together, that his once fiery eyes were holding back tears. In a quavering, defeated voice, Scott finally managed to speak, "I'm sorry–"

* _BOOM_ *

A deafening explosion tore through the entire space, rattling James to his bones. In the distance, the explosion's source, a gigantic spear of energy tore down from above into the misty gray-whiteness. It was a shot from capital-scale plasma cannon, James realized, but how? What was that kind of firepower doing in this bizarre dream-like place, on the other side of that portal no less?

The shaking and quaking kept on going, growing even more unstable. The area where the shot tore through underwent some changes too. It was darkening there, like the plasma cannon had cut a deep wound in this place, and it was bleeding somehow: bleeding a blood of darkness, of crumbling... something.

* _CRACK!_ *

As if the unstable ground beneath James couldn't toss and turn enough, everything lurched again, knocking James and everyone off their feet at that titanic _crack, _a sound of crumbling boulders, or of sundered mountains. Then another sound: that of metal, a hideous screeching, groaning, and pounding that overpowered all other sensations. What the hell could be making such noise?

The answer came a few moments later, when a large and very battered starship crashed through the dark 'breach' above. It only made an even greater cacophony of broken stone and buckling metal as it emerged from the breach entirely, and dropped. The ship left an eerie silence in its wake as it fell, which it seemed to do so slowly from this distance, with echoes still bouncing through the space...

Then the broken starship hit the ground, letting out another thunderous _crack _as its hull buckled from the impact of the crash, and the structure crumpled upon itself. After a few more moments, everything finally settled. The ground stopped shaking, and the sounds of screaming metal and shattering stone was replaced by a tense, weary silence. The hole where the ship came in from, the black breach, seemed to be expanding, slowly though.

On a closer inspection, the ship was none other than Cerberus...

"What is that ship doing here?" James asked to no one in particular, eyes widened in not-quite-dumbstruck amazement. "How did it even get here at all? I though Cerberus was impounded, or decommissioned, or something!"

"Serge..." the wolf said quietly as he stared at the wrecked ship, an uneasy foreboding coming over him.

"What are you talking about? Who's Serge?" James asked. This wolf knew something, and he had to get as much info as he could right now.

"He... acquired Cerberus not too long ago." the pale wolf explained, "I was training under him before I got caught up all this... and he taught Harrow too."

So, Serge was some kind of black-market mercenary trainer. On top of that, he also taught that Cerinian creep a few things. This was just getting more and more convoluted. Between the shock of Cerberus crashing in and sudden confusion as to the reasons, James couldn't help but become a little frustrated, and even a little angry, "What the hell is he doing here then?!"

"I don't know!" the wolf spat back, nearly matching Jame's bitter tone, "This kind of crashing through shit isn't like Serge at all. He's _never_ this cazy-reckless."

"Is he going to be a threat to us?" the fox asked.

"I don't know!" Wiley repeated bitterly, rubbing his forehead, trying to come up with some plausible reasons, "I mean, I guess Serge could be holding a grudge, for when Harrow walked out on him, and took a lot of his other trainees with him... me included."

"To hell with all this!" James cursed, "If you don't know what's up, then we'd better head over there and find out!" the fox said, pointing out the wreckage of Cerberus

"What about Scott?"

True, the wolf had a point. What about Scott?

The terrier had been silent all this time, made no mention, when Cerberus came crashing through, even though he was one of the crew for it. When James looked around a bit, he found Scott kneeling down next to Chakori's body, silent, solemn.

When he heard the White wolf's question, Scott only barely glanced up, saying quietly, "I'll be fine."

James stepped forward, very concerned, worried, "But–"

"Just... go on without me..." the terrier told them, standing up.

"I'm _not_ leaving you, Scott!" the younger fox insisted, nearly shouting at his face, "I came all the way out here, followed you into this crazy place, and stuck my neck out for _you, _Scott,to save you from your own–"

Scott shot an arm out, clasped James on the shoulder, and looked him square in the eye, "And you've done just that, lad. You've done just that." the depth of pain in his voice was something else entirely. James hadn't ever seen him so broken down before, so beaten, so at a loss, "I... I couldn't stop him... I tried, and it cost me, more than I'd ever thought I'd have to pay... and it almost cost _you..._"

Scott couldn't contain it any longer, and the tears welling up in his eyes finally broke out, "Oh _bollocks!_..." he cursed, and hastily wiped his eyes, "Can you... forgive a stubborn, hot-headed fool... for dragging you into this mess?"

"You don't have to apologize, Scott." James said shaking his head slowly, "I made the decision to come after you on my own; it's just what I do." he finished with a little shrug, maybe to ease the tension of the moment.

"Rick is here, and we came with a plan to deal with Harrow." Wiley mentioned, "If you still want to help–"

"No. You'd best get to your plan as you've planned it..." Scott commanded, taking up one last shred of his courage in saying these words, "I don't know what old Cerberus is doing here, but ye can't count on it being anything good. I... won't be much use to ye there anyway, so please... leave me be, and let me have my time..."

At this, Scott broke away, and knelt back down next to Chakori's body. He muttered something under his breath, laid the leopardess's hands over her chest, and closed her eyes... He was mourning, and in more pain than even he could bear. After a few moments, James figured that the terrier had a point. After all, who was he to force someone –in such a broken state no less– to face that pain all over again?

In the end, James acknowledged Scott with a knowing nod, and scooped up the assault rifle he'd discarded earlier in the fight against Chakori. After a quick check, and finding no fault in the weapon, he set out through the misty gray emptiness toward the broken wreckage of Cerberus. All the while, the dark breach overhead, the gaping hole that the ship ripped into this place, kept growing, and spreading. Looming like some empty ominous omen...

\

* * *

><p>

Harrow, stood at the top of one of the broken structures in this ethereal place, staring wide-eyed and slack-jawed at the mess made by the sudden intrusion of the Cerberus ship.

The vessel somehow had enough firepower to 'upset' the barrier, which normally separated this place of power from the outside, and made itself able to 'pass through', but it was hardly a clean-cut process though. Like a bullet crashing through a pane of glass, Cerberus had left irreparable 'cracks' or 'fissures' in the barrier, centered around the swiftly darkening area where the ship entered. These unstable fissures were spreading, and it wouldn't be long until the barrier won't handle it anymore, when it would shatter completely.

No longer contained, the power here would surely dissipate, and be lost for good. Exactly _how_ it would happen though –whether it would cause devastating damage or, kill everyone here, or simply dissipate quietly, or however– was a mystery to Harrow.

As if Cerberus crashing through into this place out of no where wasn't bad enough, Harrow also found that the little soldier Scott managed to break free of the thrall state. Then he killed Chakori, his own long-time comrade and crewmate, which had been completely impossible for him to do before. The Cerinian couldn't help but believe there was some other interference at work there, since there was no way Scott would've been able to break the thrall state on his own...

Nevertheless, this allowed both Makita and McCloud to act freely, to support Cooney...

Cooney...

Cerberus crashing had interrupted the link, when Harrow was sharing the apocalyptic vision of Cerinia with the raccoon. At that point, Cooney had vanished, ceased to be, as if the person Harrow was interacting with was merely an elaborate illusion... But, that couldn't possibly be the case. Those were _real _thoughts Harrow felt inside the raccoon's mind; he would've been able to pick up on the mental processes if it had been a mere concocted fake...

Too much happened, too fast, and he had trouble keeping track of it all.

The Cerinian took a stabilizing breath, and let it out slowly, working to calm his mind. He closed his eyes, and felt out for the mental-presence of those who were here. Harrow's capacity and precision with the gift would be amplified here in this place of power, but there was a problem. The breach in the barrier was causing a lot of interference, hampering the Cerinian's ability to focus, and get any sort of clear image.

With all of this, Harrow found himself in a state precariously close to utter panic...

There was no need to panic: he still had the upper hand, still had the advantage. He hadn't exhausted himself in combat as had McCloud and Makita had, and the little soldier Scott was far too broken down from slaying Chakori to be any immediate threat. All there was to be concerned about was Cooney, and whatever threat Cerberus had brought with it, if any... something to investigate.

With that thought, Harrow dropped down easily from the broken structure of white stone, and set out across the hazy, mist-covered ground toward the wreckage of Cerberus. The others would likely go there as well, drawn by their curiosity to the sudden appearance of this starship. Whatever was there, Harrow would find a way to work the situation to his advantage...

All was quiet as the Cerinian walked through, toward Cerberus. The broken vessel looked so out-of-place here, in this ancient temple of an age long past. It utterly dwarfed all of the crumbling white structures in this place, commanded all attention of the area.

He grew nearer to the wreck of Cerberus, and the ominous blackened 'breach' overhead. A low crackling hum began to permeate the area. It wasn't clear if it emanated from Cerberus, or from the black wound overhead, but the powerful grumble was rattling Harrow to his bones, penetrating ever aspect of his being...

"_HARAN!_"

He flinched at hearing his old name being roared with such fury. The voice belonged to the one called Garmir, that selfish old pirate, but Harrow hadn't ever heard Garmir in this state, overcome with such a furious rage. How could he have taken control of Cerberus? He wasn't working with Cooney, was he? The raccoon didn't have any plans in his mind that involved Garmir... Harrow reached out, sensing for the mental-presence of Garmir. Even with power interference –which worsened near the breach– it'd be easy to locate such potent rage. Try as he might though, the Cerinian found nothing...

"I knew you'd be here, you insolent, self-righteous little _whelp!_"

Harrow reached under the sweater and drew his staff from the harness on his back, making it ready as he took an active stance. What was Garmir planing?

"Did you think I would forget your betrayal, Haran?" Garmir's bloodthirsty voice asked with a low, sarcastic chuckle, "Did you think your antics and tricks would make me _fear _you?"

From the depths of the broken starship wreckage, six hovering attack drones emerged. The drones bristled with a varied array of weaponry, and hummed like the buzzing of angry hornets. They all bolted straight toward where Harrow stood, laying down a torrent of blaster-fire...

This would be simple.

Harrow reacted by engaging the staff's barrier shield which protected him from the blaster shots at the expense of movement. He wouldn't need to move though, not with what he had in mind. The Cerinian emptied his mind, in order to better focus this special technique. He deadened his mind even further, looking past the thought-presence his kind could detect, and focused on the more base energies. He could now sense and detect the energies that powered the machines –the electrical battery components– and also the much weaker and far more complex computer processes that controlled the drones.

It took many long months, some time ago, for Harrow to intuit and become familiar the varying coding languages of the machines; the specific patterns of so many tiny electrical pulses, each pattern corresponding to a set of orders and information. Disrupting these tiny pulses was at once easier, and far more difficult to alter than a living mind. A mind was physically weaker than the rigid structures of the machines, being electrical pulses of far less power, but a mind was far more adaptable, able to act and react to intrusion far more intuitively. A computing system on the other hand would not question or wonder about any changes made to it: it was inanimate, a machine. However, generating enough power to actually alter these rigidly structured patterns took its toll, requiring great concentration...

Luckily Harrow didn't plan on making any subtle alterations to the programing –something even more dauntingly complicated– and merely intended to disable the drones. Much like throwing a wrench into a complex system of cogwheels, disrupting the computing processes was as simple as miscoding a few key components...

Bypass in-programed processor load restrictions, flood the system with a 'garbage' signal –overloading the central processor– until the microscopic components of the processors melt from the sheer heat buildup. With no working processor, the machine would no longer function.

The process taxed Harrow greatly, forced his mind to focus singularly on this task, forcing so much of his powers into these machines, but it proved effective. One by one, the drones faltered, stopped firing, and clattered uselessly to the ground all around the stationary figure–

Then Harrow heard something else: a great roar and scream of small-scale thrusters, closing in quickly. He broke off from his task and opened his eyes, and saw a squat figure in a suit of power-armor plummeting down on top of him. The barrier shield wouldn't hold against that much brute force, and there were only moments to react.

The Cerinian dropped the shield and lept out of the way. With a ground-trembling _thud, _the armored figure landed where Harrow had been an instant earlier_. _The drones were deployed merely as a distraction, something to occupy his mind while the power-armored fighter took advantage of the situation...

The armored fighter pointed a fist where Harrow stood, and he quickly realized what he was going to do.

Harrow only barely got the barrier shield up again, as a jet of fire shot from the flamethrower built into the power-armor, and whipped around the Cerinian and the ethereal shell encasing him. The armored fighter merely kept the flame torrent going, and walked steadily toward Harrow, closing the distance between them. If Harrow didn't move, and fast, the armored fighter would simply close in and pummel him at melee distance, or something worse. Yet if Harrow _did _move, he'd be burnt to a crisp by the flames in an instant. He had to come up with something, his opponent was looming closer and closer now...

As quickly as he could do it, Harrow released the barrier shield and sprayed the ice blaster, aiming specifically at the flamethrower nozzle. Fire engulfed the Cerinian, burning him straight to the chest, as the icy blast he made wasn't enough to stop the fire entirely. Then the flames stopped in an instant; the ice-blast had put out the flamethrower's pilot light, and the shock of the cold had caused another portion of the flamethrower to malfunction. Fire would no longer be a threat here, but that didn't mean the fight was won: far from it, in fact.

Harrow lept quickly away from the hulking armored fighter, away from the immediate threat of his melee range. He found that the black hooded sweater he'd been wearing was now burnt to tatters, as some of the shredded and charred cloth got in his face when he moved. The Cerinian quickly tore the ruined sweater off and tossed it away, revealing a tight-fitting gray sleeveless t-shirt underneath, as well as the harness where he stored the staff when it wasn't in use.

In this time, the power-armored fighter attempted to get the built-in flamethrower to work again, but quickly gave up and switched to other means. He didn't switch to a firearm –possibly knowing of the staff's barrier-shield– and instead produced a pair of blades that swung out from the armor at the forearms, and advanced toward the Cerinian.

With a scream of a thruster burst, the armored fighter was upon Harrow almost in an instant, far more quickly than the bulky metal carapace initially would seem capable of. Harrow lept and spun out of the way to avoid being skewered on one of the blades coming for him. The thruster-burst from the armor wasn't as blindingly quick as Scott's phantom module, but unlike with Scott, getting past the powered armor would be very difficult for the staff alone, and the heat of battle wouldn't give Harrow enough time or focus to try disrupting the armor's systems directly–

_* clank *_

A small cylinder clattered at the Cerinian's feet, and hissed as a misty yellowish cloud billowed out from it: a gas canister! It was filled with a simple tear gas by the smell of it, which meant twenty seconds before he'd feel the effects. The solution was simple: just knock the canister away to minimize exposure. The only problem with that solution was the armored brute, who came at Harrow yet again.

The Cerinian did his best to hold his own in the combat, but that was far easier said than done, since the powered armor gave his opponent far too much raw strength in his blows to simply block or parry. Even with the power he'd built up here in this place, which made his muscles and reflexes act far beyond their natural limits, Harrow simply did not have the strength in his body to oppose the motorized servos and joints of the armor. He'd just have to evade the blows instead, and get away from the tear gas before it took effect, which was easily done for now.

As Harrow retreated, the armored fighter kept up, constantly charging at the blue furred vulpine, watching through the expressionless visor on his helmet. Harrow couldn't keep retreating forever though–

_* clank *_

As if to drive this peril home, another gas canister landed clattering at the Cerinian's feet, and spewed another cloud of the yellowish tear gas all around him. Already, Harrow began to feel his eyes itching, and his throat burning... He'd have to neutralize this metal-encased juggernaut, fast, and find the source of these damn gas canisters...

Harrow dodged the next lunging blow from the armored fighter, and activated the staff's booster jump. In a blazing blue flash, the staff carried its wielder up into the air about twenty feet. At the apex of the boosted jump, just as Harrow was slowing down, he gave a twirling flourish of the staff, and pointed the base of the staff straight down at his armored opponent.

The staff gave another blue flash, and suddenly became incredibly heavy in Harrow's hands, drawn toward the ground by a powerful and irresistible force. In an instant, staff and wielder plummeted straight down, until the base of the staff struck the floor, right in front of the power-armored fighter. The staff blasted a massive shock wave into the ground, making it quake and tremble. The blast staggered the armored fighter, knocked him off-balance: an opening!

Harrow leapt up at his power-armored opponent with as much strength and speed he could muster, and twisted his body into a flying dropkick aimed straight at the fighter's head. With a satisfying _thunk, _both of the Cerinian's feet slammed right into the helmet, whiplashing the fighter's head back even further. Already off-balance, the power armor clad figure lost his footing entirely, and toppled backward to the ground with a heavy _clonk!_

The force of delivering the dropkick launched Harrow away from his opponent, but in less than a second he was upon the helplessly splayed figure. Before the armored fighter could recover from his dazed state, Harrow blasted him with all the ice he could project from the staff, aiming especially at the armor's joints. In a few more moments, the frozen joints immobilized the fighter, trapping him helplessly inside the very armor that was supposed to make him 'invincible'–

The Cerinian was suddenly wracked by a fit of chest-ripping coughs, and when he blinked, a flood a tears escaped his burning eyes. It was the dam tear gas! The effects were really starting to get to him now! He struggled to keep his balance as his body screamed to his mind in agony from the gas. He had to remain focused, had to remain in control!

Then Harrow heard the roar of... No!

He jumped away to one side as quickly as he could, and as far as he could. It didn't matter where!

_* BOOM! *_

An dangerously close explosion jarred and jostled Harrow hard, knocking him even further from where he'd just dodged, and tumbling to the ground. It all made his ears ring like a damn bell, on top of the wretched debilitating effects of the tear gas. The Cerinian pushed himself back onto his feet, all while another round of coughs escaped his dried-out throat, and his exhausted lungs tried to bring in more air. Harrow opened his still screaming eyes, and looked back where he'd jumped from– where the power-armored fighter was sprawled out on the ground– where the explosion happened...

The armor now looked nothing at all like armor. It had been ripped, torn, punched inward and scorched black by an enormous force: an explosive force. The smoking hole was made by a high-explosive missile; the very same missile that Harrow had only barely dodged seconds ago. The armored fighter was motionless, and the smoking hole reeked of burnt flesh, which the Cerinian could easily smell even with the tear gas plugging up his nose. He was dead.

Nearing a panic, Harrow quickly sensed around as best he could, and scanned the area with his painfully protesting eyes as well, to find the source of that missile...

His gaze fell upon a figure near the wreckage of Cerberus. He was a tall tall black-and-white canid, sporting a set of body armor, and holding a portable missile launcher, into which he was just finishing loading a fresh missile... It was Garmir! He must've lobbed those gas grenades as well! With the missile loaded and ready, Garmir hoisted the launcher onto his shoulder, took aim, and fired. The missile leapt from its tube, and steered itself straight toward Harrow. He thought he heard Garmir's maniacal laughter over the missile's thruster, but maybe that was simply imagination at work.

In a desperate haste, the Cerinian planted the base of his staff into the ground and activated the barrier-shield. The screaming of the missile grew with each tiny moment, until–

_* BOOM! *_

Harrow felt such a blow, like he'd been struck by a careening boulder. He was blown backward several feet, and landed clumsily on his back before sliding a few more feet. That's when he felt so many bruised areas, so many strained joints, and some sharp pains that hopefully weren't broken ribs. Why had the explosion knocked him away so badly? The barrier-shield should've protected him, but it didn't... The Cerinian hazarded a closer inspection of the staff, and what he saw sent a shock of terror through him.

The head of the staff had broken off entirely, and was laying on the ground by his side. The missile's explosive power somehow overwhelmed the barrier-shield, and destroyed the staff in the process. He had no weapon now, no means of defense or attack...

Harrow struggled to his feet, but only managed to get up to a kneeling position by the time he saw Garmir bearing down on him. The tall black-and-white canid had discarded the missile launcher, and now had a blaster handgun ready in his hand as he strode forward to the defeated Cerinian. There was a barely contained rage to Garmir: a vengeful fury that Harrow could sense with no effort, could see in his wide maniacal eyes, bloodthirsty snarl, and could hear it in his malevolent, merciless voice.

"You, Haran, are a pitiful, naive _fool_ to have ever thought this would end any other way." Garmir growled as he raised his handgun to blast Harrow straight in the head.

No. Harrow wasn't done yet. There was still one thing left he could do. He'd just need to concentrate, right now, and harness all of the power from this place that he could. With any luck, he could make the mental preparations while Garmir still gleefully relished in his 'victory'. The blue furred Cerinian dropped his head low, appearing to 'accept' defeat, and–

_* Blam! * _

That was a blaster shot, but it came too soon... Also, Harrow wasn't dead. A dull _thump _soon confirmed that a body had hit the ground. Harrow looked up and, to his astonishment, saw it was Garmir... But how? There was no one else here who could've–

"Wow..." a familiar, mocking voice said, "I see you like making friends _everywhere_ you go."

Standing over Garmir's dead body was that same raccoon who'd 'vanished' before: Cooney, "_You!_"

\

* * *

><p>

Richard Cooney stood over the furious yet depleted Cerinian, who glared back at him with some combination of astonishment and irritation. He kept his compact handgun ready, and maintained as controlled an appearance as he could.

Getting the drop on Garmir was easy, with him so focused on taking down Harrow. Rick watched the battle from a distance as he approached the wreck of Cerberus, careful to edge around the combatants' main area of focus. He would've expected Harrow to sense him approach, but then again, he was just as distracted as Garmir was in his fight, if not more.

"I believe a 'thank you' is in order." Rick said as he stepped around Garmir's limp body.

"What for?" Harrow asked in a tired, wheezing voice.

"Because unlike Garmir, I'm actually going to give you a chance, but one chance only: give up."

"I have seen the future, and have been _gifted_ with the ancient power stored here: a power I can use to save my people." The Cerinian insisted, "I cannot fail them, not with what's coming."

"You've already failed your people, Haran, when they saw it fit to exile you, and I'm beginning to see why...

"Instead of allowing Cassandra to help you when you arrived in Lylat, you spurned her away. Even then, you could have lived a more ordinary life, try to make the best of things. Instead, you went in with Serge's lot, and used your talents for more selfish means. That by itself might not have been so bad, if you'd stuck with some of the more 'honorable' outlaws. Instead, you made the wrong friends when you teamed up with Garmir's ruthless crew. You came here, to this 'place of power', where you saw the 'vision' and gained access to this 'power', and turned against Garmir. Granted, it wasn't necessarily a bad idea to get away from him, but when you broke from Garmir, you became no better than him: a ruthless outlaw _pirate._

"You've made nothing but the wrong decisions, Haran. Just this once, make the right decision." At this, Rick extended his hand to the beaten Cerinian. Harrow may have deserved death for his actions, deserved all the pain and suffering that could be rendered to him, but Rick's mission from Director Hawking was clear: capture Harrow.

"And what then?" Harrow asked bitterly as he glared up at the raccoon, "Would I submit, and let your laws destroy me?"

"I'm not the law." Rick insisted, "I exist outside of the law."

"Then your personal vengeances, or your vaunted mission." the Cerinian dismissed, "You won't simply forgive me, not for the things I've done. I will forever owe you and your ilk some form of compensation. You would use the threat of law or other retribution as a leash to control me, and I would become indentured as a slave to your whims."

"That's awfully cynical of you–"

"Cynical or not, it is the _truth!_" Harrow spat back, "Only the strongest, most 'dangerous' ones –the ones who control the retribution they parcel out– command _any_ respect in this filthy world of yours, and are able to freely do what they must do. I became dangerous, learned of your ways, so I would not be impeded when it came time to act." He dropped his head down again, weak, or upset, or resigned...

"Garmir _beat_ you, you were going to _die,_ so I guess that means you just aren't 'dangerous' enough to handle the life you've chosen as 'Harrow'..." Rick reached out again, and put a hand on the troubled Cerinian's shoulder, "It's time to choose a different life, Haran, and put all this to rest. Come with me–"

Harrow grabbed Rick's wrist, and wrenched it away from his shoulder. When he looked up at Rick, his eyes shined blue, and the rest of his face was twisted in a fierce snarl, "_You... will not bar me from my Destiny!_"

Rick felt Harrow enter his mind then, forcing his way into his thoughts, into everything, including the muscles of his limbs. Harrow was trying to root him in place, taking control of his body's motor functions, and possibly more. He was reaching for the broken end of his staff weapon, and would take advantage of this forcibly induced paralysis to land a killing blow to Rick. As he did this, Harrow showed only this enraged snarl, while his shining eyes beamed their light straight into Rick's own eyes...

It wasn't over yet.

The Cerinian mental link was a two-way street: when a Cerinian enters the mind of another, his own mind becomes intertwined with whoever he links to. A strong enough mind, and one who is aware of how the link functions, can potentially reverse this process on the initiator. That's one of the things Cassandra mentioned during their time. Harrow's own mental prowess was awfully strong though, and getting any kind of control might prove difficult ...

Rick felt around Harrow's thoughts, feeling his intentions, his immediate plans. First things first though, he'd do to Harrow what he did to Rick. Locking the Cerinian's motor functions was relatively simple, in concept at least. What ended up happening between them was that the muscles for each of their limbs received conflicting orders. 'Flex!' versus 'Don't flex!', with the result being both Rick and Harrow just stood there, twitching, spasming. For such a tense moment, it probably didn't look too impressive on the outside.

Giving orders to limbs was a fairly simple process, like commanding one's own limbs, only it was someone else. Using the link to damage organs or stop other body processes was much harder though. One can't tell one's own heart to stop beating, or hold ones breath for too long before reflex forced a breath, and it was similarly impossible to do the same through the Cerinian mental link... or so it should have been.

Rick felt something violent in his stomach, threatening to heave, and contort his body against his will. Harrow was triggering his body's reflexes! No matter what he did, Rick had to maintain his focus, had to maintain his hold on Harrow's own limb functions. Already though, with the sheer scramble in his mind induced by the forced nausea, Rick could feel his hold slipping, and Harrow was taking advantage...

"You think... you can stop me?!" Harrow growled, "You are _nothing!_"

The Cerinian had gained enough control to speak, and if he kept it up, might gain even more. He had more reserves of the 'power' he'd used, and Rick could feel him gathering up more of it. It was a process of which he was wholly unfamiliar, with Harrow acting in some kind of symbiosis with another entity, which allowed the Cerinian to channel his will into others, and also much more... 'Spirit' is what Harrow had called that power earlier mentioned earlier, and the description matched...

It was becoming difficult to differentiate between Rick and Harrow now. Their minds had become intertwined with one another. Rick could feel the pain from Harrow's injuries just as easily as he could feel the nausea Harrow had induced. They could feel each other's thoughts –Rick's desperation, Harrow's determination– they were one-and-the-same.

Then there was a pain.

He felt someone stab him in the back, and twist the blade, causing another agonized pang from the wound. The blade was removed, and he felt his blood burst from the wound: it was fatal, a major artery had been severed, and there was no patching it up, not here... No! He couldn't die like this! There was still much to do!

Yet even then, his thoughts were slowing, his hearing went quiet, and his vision began fading to darkness. He felt his limbs give out under their weakness, barely, and soon that too was gone.

And there was nothing.

* * *

><p>Author Notes:<p>

Yeah, sorry I left this at a cliffhanger guys (and gals). Also, very sorry for taking so damn long to write/publish this chapter. There was a lot of stuff going on at the time, like college finals, working on Red Dust, work, but really, those would all just be excuses. I _did _have the mother of all writer's blocks though, but I've finally cracked it after all this time.

There's going to be about two or three chapters left in this volume of _Star Fox: Legacy. _Just need to wrap up the last of this plot, and have a little bit of resolving material to finish this arc before moving ahead. We're in the home stretch now! (yay)

As always, your feedback is most welcome, and I look forward to having it.

Take care!


	19. Shadowfall

**影が落ちる**

_**Shadowfall**_

"Cynical or not, it is the _truth!_" Harrow spat back, "Only the strongest, most 'dangerous' ones –the ones who control the retribution they parcel out– command _any_ respect in this filthy world of yours, and are able to freely do what they must do. I became dangerous, learned of your ways, so I would not be impeded when it came time to act..."

Harrow listened to Cooney's words, played along with his little speech only to bide for time, to focus, to gather his strength. He cared nothing for what the lying raccoon had to say, for what he falsely claimed to offer him. Just a few more moments, and the spirit inside Harrow will have gathered enough ambient power in this place to end it all, and be rid of these troublesome enemies.

"Garmir _beat_ you, you were going to _die,_ so I guess that means you just aren't 'dangerous' enough to handle the life you've chosen as 'Harrow'..." Rick reached out again, and put a hand on the troubled Cerinian's shoulder, "It's time to choose a different life, Haran, and put all this to rest. Come with me–"

Now!

Harrow ripped the raccoon's hand off his shoulder, and stared directly into Rick's startled eyes, as he growled, "_You... will not bar me from my Destiny!_"

There was such power coursing through the Cerinian now, the spirit inside him having engorged itself to its fullest extent it could. Finishing this would be such a simple matter now. Gleefully, harrow entered Cooney's mind, and immediately took control of his limbs, locking the raccoon in a helpless state of paralysis–

He couldn't move either?!

Another presence had entered Harrow's own mind, locking his own limbs in place, just as he had done to Rick. Who? How?... then he felt it. Of all places, the intervening presence came from within Rick himself. He'd used the link Harrow made as the means to enter the Cerinian's mind, where he gained some control... but how?

It was no matter. Harrow had more than enough power, and more than enough skill to overpower this intrusion. He still had full access to Cooney's mind, and just the means to break his focus...

Harrow found it simple enough to go to the bottom of Rick's mind, where the involuntary, reactionary reflexes of the body were set. It was a lot like executing a computer program in the machines, actually. He just had to trigger a few of the more... uncomfortable sensations, and Cooney's focus would crumble like a poorly built wall.

Just a few prods to the reflexes, and there it went. The Cerinian felt the brunt of some of the meddling, but he could contain it, smother it with the spirit's power. Rick on the other hand, did not have that luxury, and his grip on Harrow's mind began to slip. The fool was finished!

"You think... you can stop me?!" Harrow growled as he regained control of his speech, "You are _nothing!_"

The power was coming back to him now; power enough to break this weak, troublesome, insidious meddler! Harrow would send this filth into complete _oblivion_, where he could rot with his twisted schemes! The work was only beginning, and–

There was a pain.

He felt someone stab him in the back, and twist the blade, causing another agonized pang from the wound. The blade was removed, and he felt his blood burst from the wound: it was fatal, a major artery had been severed, and there was no means to patch it up, not here... No! He couldn't die like this! There was still much to do!

\

* * *

><p>

_A very short time earlier:_

Scott Aberdeen watched as James and that other wolf turned away, and walked off to where Cerberus had just crashed. She was a good vessel: a bit outdated, a bit tweaked, but she'd reached the end of it now, after crashing through into this crazy place. After all its time, the tough old ship had finally taken more than she could handle...

The dark terrier gave a small, ironic chuckle. He found himself relating to the old ship: two tough old fighters, finally gone too far, and done something incredibly reckless and stupid.

He looked down to Chakori again, at her still, lifeless form. Her eyes were no longer lit with that ghostly blue light. She was dead now, but she was herself, and she was at peace. It wasn't right, it wasn't right at all. She used to be so full of life, so full of vigor, and an unyielding determination. It just wasn't like her at all to be so still, so peaceful. Of course, it wasn't like her to be dead either...

Chakori had always joked that she'd go down fighting. Though in truth, Scott figured the leopardess was tough and cunning enough to outlast any and all enemies, and She'd end up living a long and eventually happy life. Maybe he just _wished_ Chakori could've lived that long.

Scott knew there was no other option at the time to save Jame's life: the boy was _going _to die, or maybe suffer a worse fate. Still, he couldn't stop himself wishing there might have been another way to solve it, to save her as well. There _should _have been another way! It may have been childish to think 'it's not fair', but Chakori deserved so much better than to end up like this, and she _especially_ deserved better than this from Scott.

Slowly, Scott bent down on one knee over Chakori's body, and held her hand in his own. She was still warm, or maybe the terrier's hand had just become that cold.

Scott closed his eyes, and in uttered a painful whisper, "I'm sorry."

He found his blaster, and drew its muzzle up under his chin...

\

* * *

><p>

What James saw, in a word, was odd.

It was Rick and Harrow, standing opposite one another, very still. From this distance, maybe he was just seeing things, but he swore he could've seen lights flashing in both of their eyes. This was a problem. James didn't have a clue what was going on between the Cerinian and Richard Cooney in this moment. Luckily, he was with someone who had prior experience with Harrow.

The fox turned to Wiley next to him, asking, "Do you–"

He was already gone by then. The white wolf had bolted ahead of James, at full sprint, toward Rick and Harrow.

Instantly, the fox brought his rifle up, anticipating a reaction from Harrow. He had the Cerinian in his sights, but nothing happened. They just stood exactly as they had when James and the wolf had found them.

As the wolf closed in on them, he drew a knife, and shouted at the top of his lungs, "You sick son of a _Bitch!_"

He grabbed Harrow by the shoulder, and drove the knife into the center of his lower back. The Cerinian flinched, and his knees went limp. Strangely, Rick dropped down to his knees at the exact same time, apparently reacting to nothing at all.

Snarling in the throes of rage, Wiley twisted and his knife in Harrow's back, forcing the Cerinian into a startled convulsion, while blood leaked out his back and reddened the wolf's hand. He pulled out his blood-smeared blade, and Harrow lost his balance as his strength was spent. The dying Cerinian slumped to his knees, looking straight up. The wolf raised a foot to kick Harrow down on his face, but–

_* Boom! *_

There was a flash of light, and Wiley was blown back off his feet by some kind of shock wave, which James felt as a sudden blast of wind, centered on Harrow. The wolf landed on his back with a heavy _thump _just ahead of James, his eyes wide with surprise.

In all that happened, Harrow hadn't gone down, not in the least. He was facing the fox and wolf now, floating a few feet off the ground, his seething body engulfed in what could only be described as a kind of blue fire, but it didn't seem to harm him. The Cerinian's eyes shined incredibly bright now, like a pair of floodlights in his head, nearly blinding James with the dazzling light. The rest of his face was contorted in an unnatural visage of rage and pain, a demented toothy snarl, like a hungry beast that had cornered its prey.

Then Harrow –if what was in front of James was still Harrow– let out a scream like no scream he'd ever heard before. The noise that sprang from the Cerinian's throat sounded more like a thousand different voices, all crying out in horrible pain, like they've been tortured near to death, begging to live on for a few more moments, or begging for death to end it. James felt a terrifying fear well up inside as he heard this, as well as pain, and agony. This was more than a mere sound, or an instinctual reaction to it. Something in the fox's mind actually generated those ghastly feelings and sensations from absolutely nothing.

He'd felt fear before, felt the terror of facing death. It could cripple you, erase all other thoughts at the moment, override whatever you had intended to do. However, fear alone wouldn't stop James McCloud, he knew how to deal with this, he'd been trained for this. The fox set his feelings aside, put the fear to rest, and focused on what was in front of him. It was easier said than done though, when what _was _in front of James was something out of a nightmare: a floating, writing, blazing, supernatural phenomena he knew _nothing_ about–

He felt a sudden spike of pain in his head, right behind his eyes, and his vision blurred and went hazy with it. The pain needed to stop. The pain had to end. He couldn't do anything while the pain was there. There was a sudden urge for James to pluck out his own eyes, dig them out, if only to get at where the pain was, to make it end–

_NO!_

His heart was racing, drumming against the inside of his chest, while his breath came in with trembling gasps. It wasn't real. Whatever was happening to him wasn't actually happening, unless... maybe it was?

_NO!_

He couldn't give up. He needed to trust the instincts. They'd know what to do.

All James could see was a blurry sight of a bright light, and a floating silhouette in the middle of it. All he could hear were the thousands of voices all screaming out in agony. All he could feel was the pain, like his head was splitting open from the inside. All he could think about was the confusion, the uncertainty of all that was going on around him.

All he did though, was bring up the assault rifle in his hands, and fire a stream of blazing blaster shots at the blurred, writhing figure floating in front of him. The blue fire that engulfed Harrow was now pecked away at by the bright red lances streaking into him. The scream of the rifle's discharges raged against the screams of the ghastly voices, and James even felt his own voice join the furious choir, bellowing back in a stubborn fury.

The light grew brighter in Jame's vision, brighter until there was nothing but whiteness in all of his vision. The thousand wailing voices became a single, ear-splitting screeching tone in his ears.

Then it ended.

The fox's hoarse, roaring voice finally went silent when his breath ran out, and he was forced to gasp down another breath through his cracked throat. The assault rifle in his hands had stopped firing, either because it ran out of ammunition, or some other malfunction. He'd have to check it later...

The screams had fallen silent now, leaving only a persistent ringing in his ears, and the pain in his head had subsided too. Instead of a spike being driven in his skull, there was just a dull, worn out, throbbing ache. Surprisingly, James found he was still standing up, and the white nothing dominating his vision began to fade away, and the true scene –he hoped– presented itself.

There were a few bodies spread out in front of the fox. The furthest was someone in power armor, with the chest-plate blown open. Another had been shot in the back of his head, laid face-down. He looked like a mercenary. The last, and closest, used to be Harrow.

James McCloud came next to the Cerinian's body, and knelt down, getting a better look at it. The corpse was badly burned all over, smoking, and smelling of sickly scorched flesh. Some the burns were from blasterfire, but a lot of it wasn't. What little of his fur hadn't been singed off was falling out at the slightest touch, easily brushed away when James ran a hand over him–

He nearly jumped back when he saw Harrow's face, or rather, what was left of it. The eyes were gone, seared completely away, leaving just two empty, smoldering sockets in their place. There was a strange , thick, black fluid in those sockets, and also leaking out of his mouth and nose. He could've sworn he smelled something even more foul than burnt flesh there too.

James was... okay with dead bodies, but something about this one just made him feel sick inside. In any case, Harrow was most definitely dead, and there were others here who may not be...

Wiley was nearby, hunched low over the ground. He seemed alright, but he was... disturbed, by something. When James came in closer, he saw the pale wolf was holding Rick in his arms, and Rick wasn't moving.

"No..." Wiley uttered in a desperate tone, "Don't you _dare _do this to me you crazy prick!"

"What's wrong?" the fox asked, suddenly very worried, "Is he–"

"No, he's not dead," Wiley cut him off, shaking his head, "but he's not much better off."

"What do you mean? What happened?" from what James could see, the raccoon was unconscious

"It was the link. That goddamn bluefur was getting into Rick's head." "I think Harrow was trying to destroy his mind, make him an empty shell like the others."

James could believe it, seeing Rick like this. He half expected the raccoon to reawaken, as Scott had earlier, with two little pinpoints of light in his eyes as he looked back with that defeated, emotionless vacant stare. Right now though, Rick simply looked as though he were asleep, but his breaths were so slow and he moved so little, it almost looked like he wasn't alive at all.

"But... we stopped it, right?" James asked, looking up at Wiley.

The wolf fidgeted for a time, searching for an answer, but found none. In the end, he could only sigh, and give McCloud a helpless, unknowing look as he shrugged–

_* Crack! *_

Both James and Wiley stopped, and turned toward the noise.

The sound came from above, something between cracking stone and a crack of thunder. Then James began to realize something: it had gotten darker in here, much darker. The dark patch in the ceiling where Cerberus had broken through had expanded, a lot, grown to encompass at least half of the space, maybe more. The flat ambient white light that had once given this entire area its eerie dream-like quality was fading fast...

That first _crack _overhead was quickly joined by a dozen smaller ones, and still many more. The vibrations generated in the ground from these cracks almost became full-blown quakes. Soon, the entire space was filled with a nothing but a deafening, echoing cacophony, ranging from deep bellowing grumbles and thuds, to high snapping clacks.

He had to act.

Instinct demanded that James McCloud evacuate the area, and bring as many as he could with him, but there wasn't a way to do that. He had no idea how to get out of this... 'nightmare realm' where these bizarre events had taken place, where they continued to take place around him. Maybe the way that Cerberus had entered... but that would need a ship, and there was no ship–

The fox's headset comm crackled with static, warbling. It was getting a signal? All signals had cut out ever since they'd passed through the portal thing. Even before that, the underground passage blocked most signal already. James adjusted the comm, working to get a stronger signal, hopefully before the entire area collapsed around them...

His ears then pricked, hearing another sound rising in the distance amidst the crumbling stones. It was higher pitched, and a steady tone: an engine whine. As it grew louder, James soon recognized the twin Space Dynamics Shooting-Star plasma thrusters. The Mercutio? Here?!

The static in Jame's comm cleared away almost entirely now, and a desperate voice called out in his ear, "Jim?..." it was Rachelle, "Jim, can you hear me?"

"Yeah." the fox answered, searching for the telltale plasma thruster streak where the Mercutio would be, "I can hear you fine now."

He thought he saw a streak weaving its way through

"Hold on... there! Got a lock on your signal location." Rachelle confirmed, relief easing up her voice, "You just sit tight Jim, we're gonna get you out."

"We've got wounded here: Rick." James informed, checking the raccoon's vitals again, "He's in... pretty bad shape."

\

* * *

><p>

It was black, and dark, and little else: pretty much how Richard Cooney figured death would be like anyway. He didn't figure he'd be self-aware though, which he was, oddly enough. He felt reasonably comfortable at the moment, the air didn't have any real determinable quality to it, it just was. At least he could breathe, or something like it.

The raccoon took a few steps, finding the ground beneath him was solid, even if he couldn't really see it–

Then Rick saw an image of himself appear, laying on the ground. It looked exactly like him, only this 'Rick' wasn't moving, wasn't breathing...

In a flash of panic, he looked down, and saw his own hands and feet, attached to his own body. They were moving just fine, and he could feel them, and he could move about on his own.

Right. So, there were two Ricks: one dead, one not. Nevertheless, this didn't make him any less uncomfortable with the situation.

"You are very fortunate, Cooney." a voice said.

He knew this voice: Cassandra, the Cerinian contact from earlier. Rick looked to the direction the voice came from, and did indeed find Cassandra. She seemed to simply fade in through the blackness, as she stepped forward to join the standing Rick.

"What do you mean?" he asked, looking back and forth between the Cerinian woman, and the image of his dead self.

"You experienced death." Cassandra answered, motioning toward the dead Rick in front of them.

He remembered now, "I was... stabbed, in the back. So that makes me fortunate _why?_" the raccoon quipped back.

Cassandra gave a small chuckle and smirk, "Because you aren't _quite_ dead." she said, giving the alive Rick an obvious look.

The raccoon suddenly realized, "This is Ju'shi, isn't it; living death?"

"In a sense, but it is _far_ more dangerous." the elder Cerinian began with a grim nod, stepping toward the dead image of Rick, "Haran did not simply link your mind with another. The link he made with you went far deeper, nearly overwhelming and destroying your mind completely. His thoughts and feelings were yours, your thoughts and feelings were his..."

Cassandra knelt down next to the body, keeping her somber demeanor, like she were paying respects at a funeral.

"When Haran's body died, you experienced his death firsthand, as if it were your own. With how fundamentally fused your minds were at the time, both minds occupying each body, the shock of Haran's death in his mind, and in yours, triggered a sympathetic reaction in your body. You believed so thoroughly that you were dying, that you really _did _die..." She stood up, and looked squarely at Rick.

"So, if I'm 'not quite dead'..." the raccoon furrowed his brow as he crouched down, and looked very closely over his dead body. It really was him, right down to the tiniest details only he'd now about. Even the weathering and wear on the clothes were exactly as he remembered, exactly the same as the clothes he wore now, right down to the worn-out heel in one of his shoes. Then another flash of realization struck him, and he stood back up quickly, "I think I see where this is going."

"Your mind is split into two separate identities, two consciousnesses." the older Cerinian motioned toward both the dead Rick, and the live Rick, "Or rather, it _was _split. It was only one half of your mind that was joined with Haran, that felt the full brunt of his death, and so that half died with him."

"Wait, so... Which part am I, exactly?" the raccoon asked, sticking his hand on his chest, "Am I Rick, or am I the shadow?"

"It doesn't matter." Cassandra insisted, shaking her head, "Your 'shadow' was simply an opposing aspect of yourself: a counterpoint whenever you had doubts, another perspective when you needed one, a 'devil's advocate' to test your ideas. Usually both of these minds would work in harmony with one another, and you wouldn't know the difference. It was normally during times of internal conflict that your shadow would manifest, that you would see him, and he would speak to you."

"Right, right, I knew that." Rick nodded, and looked toward his dead 'shadow' again. He remembered the countless times he'd seen this apparition, this mocking döppleganger. He was such a nuisance during those stressful times. Still, the smug bastard became a pretty routine nuisance, and Rick began to think he might miss seeing him butt-in every now and then...

"So, what'll happen now?" he asked, "Is this part of me gone forever?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen something like this myself, and all the stories I've heard end differently." the Cerinian confessed, "What I _do_ know is that there are many who care about you, who are all very worried about you..."

Cassandra motioned toward an empty area of the blackness, and several more figures stepped out of the dark, walking toward Rick without saying a word. There was Rachelle, Jim too, Scott, and... Wiley? What was that crazy wolf doing there?

"Come." the older Cerinian pointed another way, and smiled. A point of light was there, off in the distance, "It is time for you to live."

Compared to all the black and dark here, the light looked... inviting. He could've sworn it even felt warmer looking at it. Almost without thinking, Rick began to walk toward the light, which got brighter and brighter with each step he took.

Rick stopped for just a moment, and looked back over his shoulder. Cassandra was gone now, and the others too. The dead Rick was still there though, still dead, still not moving–

There was a brief flash. Maybe it was nothing, but Rick could've sworn he saw his dead self flicker for a moment, like a video feed caught between two channels. Nevertheless, it didn't do anything else. It just laid there, dead, as it always had. Strange.

The raccoon turned away from that, and went toward the light again. In only a few moments, the light completely replaced the dark. All Rick could see was a bright, blinding whiteness...

No, that wasn't it.

The light was coming from a source, right in front of him, or above him. He couldn't see much, but Rick could definitely hear a few things, people talking...

"He's waking up." someone nearby said. He didn't recognize the voice.

The raccoon's vision finally started getting into focus now. Someone in a sterile white outfit was standing closest to him, but he soon stepped away. Carefully, still feeling his head spin from the... bizarre experience he just had, Rick propped himself up and took a quick survey of the surroundings. There was a lot of equipment, very clean equipment too, and a handful of figures standing around him–

One of them jumped on Rick, knocking almost all the air out of his lungs in the process. Then this person clutched him around the chest, pinning his arms in place. This vice-grip embrace was a lot tighter, and a lot closer than what he was comfortable with.

"You crazy _bastard!_" it was the wolf, Wiley. Of all the people who might jump on Cooney with an embrace like this, it was _him?_ "What the hell were you _thinking?!_"

"Wiley..." the raccoon managed to squeak out.

"Was all that insane crap part of your so-called _'plan'?!_"

"Wiley..." barely a suffocated whisper now.

"What?" Yes! Finally got his attention!

"I... can't breathe." Rick could feel himself going lightheaded, and this really wasn't a good time to black out.

An awkward second or two passed then, before the white wolf quickly released Rick and stepped back, allowing him to finally gasp for the oxygen he so desperately needed. At least his ribs were okay, and he could finally get a decent look around. He was in the Medical bay of the Shwartzwind privateer crusier. He helped bring Wiley here shortly after they'd first met, when he was half frozen and beaten to a bloody pulp.

Wiley was nearby, looking awfully flustered by his sudden burst of asphyxiating affection. He kept turning his head away, avoiding eye-contact with Rick. Jim was there next to him, looking even more confused than he did earlier, with his brow askew and jaw half-open. It was like he wanted to say something, but couldn't quite find the words. Rachelle on the other hand just smiled and shook her head, like she had all the answers figured out. Scott was also present, but it didn't seem he was all there. The terrier just stood, silent and still as a post, grim as a graveyard. On seeing Rick awake though, he did give the raccoon the smallest hint of a smile, which could be a good sign...

"Welcome back." he heard Cassandra say.

The Cerinian woman was standing right next to Rick. She had a look of quietly happy relief, but there was a small twinge of regret as well.

"It was... one hell of a trip."

* * *

><p>Okay. Glad I finally got through that. Whew!<p>

I've had the ideas for this part of the story arc in my head for so long, it's actually quite relieving to be able to get them out in the open. I also apologize for the possibly "rushed" seeming ending. I did try to draw out the end of the chapter, give it a more complete conclusion, but it didn't quite feel right. It felt like the kind of things I would've put in the next chapter or two, where I've still got a few loose ends to tie off, and a few hooks for the next arc to place.

In any case, thank you for reading, and for sticking with this story as long as it's gone. As always, your feedback is most welcome.

No, seriously, _anything_ you say is welcome. I can't tell if what I'm writing is crap, or if it's awesome, not unless you fellas say so. If it's awesome, and you say so (even if it's just a little reply), then I know I can keep doing what I'm doing, and I don't have to constantly second-guess my material. If it's crap (or even just a little iffy in a spot or two), and you say so, then I can go back and reexamine those spots, and see what I can do about it.

You all help me make Legacy the story that it is. So by all means, leave your mark, make an impact.

Until next time,  
>chaos_Leader.<p> 


	20. Aftermath

**余波 **

**Aftermath**

James McCloud, along with Scott, Peppy, Pigma and several others, had come to a bar on the Yomai-yor freeport station, over Katina. The station itself was a trade and transport hub, one of several that orbited Katina below, similar to many populated worlds of Lylat. The bars, as wells as other amenities of such orbital stations, were mainly places of respite for the weary spacer. They were places where a captain and crew could step off their ship, stretch their legs, catch up with old colleagues over drinks, and maybe make some new colleagues in the process. Today though, this old spacer bar was to serve a far more solemn purpose, because it was a favorite of the deceased mercenary captain, Malcolm Aries.

Many acquaintances of the old ram had been invited here today, for an informal memorial to him of sorts. Most of the present company were older spacer types, mercenaries, privateer captains, and a handful of others. All of them were quiet and somber, which created a rare and eerie atmosphere for a usually bustling spacer bar. So many people gathered in one place, and so quiet. James wasn't exactly sure what to make of it when patrons first looked at the young fox and his cohorts, with the tired, glassy-eyed gazes of much older, and more weathered men, as well as a number of equally hardened women. James could almost feel the weight of the judgments they passed on him as he passed by.

In all this, it turned out that Captain Otto Jäger was one of the guests present, who quickly spotted James and the others. The otter privateer brought the group through the crowd, to an empty table near the bar. Once James and the others had settled, the fox got a good look around, and saw what was on the bar itself.

Sitting on the bar was a small holographic display, projecting an image of Malcolm. The stocky old ram looked very jolly in this image, wearing that confident smile of his, arms folded across his broad barrel chest. In another moment, the bartender set a large glass mug full of a frothing amber beer next to the image. No one picked it up, and in a moment, James realized that the drink was meant for the late Captain Aries.

Someone among the guests stood up, someone James didn't recognize. He was a taller, swaggering bovine with a drink in hand. "First off, I'd like to thank y'all for making it here, to this lonely little dive a few dozen kilometers over Katina, all to pay our homage and respects to a dear old bastard of ours." the bull began, speaking with a great deal of bluster and gesticulation, "It's the kind of crap fate that so verymany in our line of work meet, to come to an untimely end on the job, but it's a fate we know full well is likely. I mean, come on, let's face it people: it's not like we have cushy office jobs or something."

This got a few chuckles from the crowd, and a general murmur of agreement.

The swaggering bull took a swig of his drink, and began again, "Now, at least old Mal went down fighting like a man, never choosing to back down if he could help it. The best part at the end of his story though: when he couldn't go on, the job he was working still got finished by those he was with." the speaker found James, and everyone with him, and looked directly at the younger fox, "We honor those brave fellas here today, just as we honor Mal, for picking up the baton he dropped and bringing it to the finish line for him. Heck, they even went and got the son-of-a-bitch who offed Mal!"

A hearty round of cheers rose up through the bar, as well as many raised drinks in salute. They were cheering for James, and for Peppy, Pigma and Scott. They weren't there, they didn't know the details. Maybe they just wanted to feel like Malcolm's death was vindicated, that his passing wasn't totally pointless.

"You'll be sorely missed old pal," the bovine speaker began again, once the cheers faded, "but we know you wouldn't want us grieving and sobbing all over the place on account of you. You'd want us to pick our weepy sorry asses up, and go right on living. But, that being said, I hope you you can pardon us having a little get-together, share a few drinks, a few stories, and maybe a few laughs at your expense. The jokes are all in good taste, I swear."

There were a few half-hearted laughs at that, and maybe even a poorly concealed sob. It wasn't clear from who though, not with so many gathered...

"Well, I've said my piece, put in a good word for you and everything, you stubborn old bone-head. Figure it's time we go ahead and make the toast official..." the bull raised his half-finished drink, "Arm your glasses everyone!"

There was a brief scramble amongst the gathered crowd. They raised their drinks, or empty glasses in some cases, or at least did their best to play along with it.

When everyone was reasonably prepared, the speaker proceeded, declaring, "To Mal! And to all our absent comrades!"

"A good man!" someone piped up.

"I think I still owe the smug bastard money!" another chimed in.

"Fine son of a gun if ever there was one!"

"I'll drink to that!" the last outburst brought a round of hearty cheers, then all those gathered in the bar took a long swig of their drinks.

"We'll keep your memory flying, even if you aren't." the bull said with grave tone of finality, as he set his empty mug on the bar, and soon drifted back into the crowd.

Through all this, even with so many praising Malcolm Aries, Scott Aberdeen was conspicuously quiet. He simply sat there across from James, made no eye contact with those around him, and sometimes took a sip or two from a small glass of whiskey in front of him.

"Scott?" Peppy said, gently nudging the dark terrier, "Aren't you gonna say something?"

"What's there to say?" Scott replied with a shrug, and downed the last of his whiskey.

With his glass empty, the terrier stood up from the table and shuffled toward the bar, likely for another drink. No sooner than had Scott left, someone sidled by, and sat in his place across from James. It was the same hulking bovine who'd made the speech earlier. The bull took one more look at Scott before turning his attention to James and the others at the table, "Scott has my sympathies, but I doubt he's in a mood to receive them. He needs space think, and some time."

"Did you want something?" James asked, sizing up the sudden newcomer. He must've known Malcolm Aries a while, and had at least some respect among his generation of mercenaries. He seemed amiable enough though.

"Well, thing is, I wasn't just buttering up to you fellas in my little speech there on account of being polite." the bull began as he looked around the table, at the much younger fox, swine and hare he shared company with, "The old-timer mercs, like myself and Mal, are getting spread awful thin these days. We get old, we retire, move on to other things or, we find our lives put to an untimely close by the work. In any case, our numbers dwindle, and that creates a demand-supply dynamic that's always looking for fresh meat."

"Forgive me if that sounds like stating the obvious, considering the mercenary workforce turnover includes a sizable KIA bodycount." James replied, maybe a little more harshly than he intended, but there was some drink in him, muddling the thinking, "So I have to ask: what exactly is your point?"

"Well ain't you just a little razor-tongued canine?" the bull chortled, "Thing is, with all this demand for fresh meat on the mercenary market, we get a _ton_ of cheap cuts. Maybe you've seen 'em: all them young, self-centered, braggart glory-hounds, who strut around with their macho, wannabe-badass bullshit." he took a moment to let off a disgusted huff, then returned his attention to James, "Point is, your actions have proved to me –to us all– that you're not one of these useless young-gun types. You folks can actually get the job done, and you'll be a welcome sight if you decide you wanna go freelance."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, I'll keep that in mind." the fox remembered Owen Phoenix's words from earlier. It's true he'd need a new source of work, though he'd never gone freelance before.

"Don't mention it, kid." the bull waved him off, relaxing, "So, how exactly _did_ you and Malcolm meet?"

"Believe it or not, the old ram locked me in his brig for a few days."

"That so?" the bovine asked with great interest, "What'cha do to earn that kind of special treatment?"

"It was part of a ploy, trying and make another prisoner open up and talk."

"Ha! sounds like crafty ol' Mal alright. He was always a heck of a lot more clever than he let on..."

\

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><p>

Serge Noire made his round through the dining floor of the restaurant, content, but careful how he showed it, careful and precise as always. It was a busy evening tonight, as it ought to be on a weekend evening. The staff were all hard at work, and the customers were satisfied as far as he could tell. As he went through, Serge made sure not to impede his wait-staff on his way to one specific customer...

Chandra had already informed Serge that the two Cooneys were here. They'd reserved a private booth using cover identities, but were otherwise deliberate in ensuring the staff knew it was them. Chandra and some of the other staff were anxious, possibly even worried, but not Serge. He expected the Cooneys would confront him sooner or later, and he was prepared to meet them.

In a few moments' time, Noire had navigated the throngs of his busy restaurant, and approached the private booth. Both Richard and Rachelle Cooney were there, looking over the menu, and looking quite pleased to be there. The man in a tasteful but otherwise ordinary tuxedo, and the woman had donned a most elegant turquoise evening dress; a far cry from slinking infiltrator who broke into the restaurant before. If Serge didn't know any better, he might've assumed they were simply another couple, enjoying an evening at his restaurant.

"Welcome back, Miss Cooney." Serge complimented as he neared their table, "I must say, the fine attire you sport now suits you _far _better than the rags I first saw you wearing."

"Thank you." Rachelle responded in a tone of utmost politeness.

"Care to join us, Serge?" Rick offered, with a suspiciously sly look about him, "We've been expecting you."

"Hm." Noire uttered with a raised eyebrow.

A moment later, a waiter approached the Cooney's table with a bottle of sparkling wine, and three glasses. The waiter stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Serge at the table, looking very confused, and unsure of what he should be doing. The waiter was one of the newer staff members, still learning his 'unofficial' skills, but he knew enough to reasonably assume that this was more than a mere couple of guests he was serving.

After a few seconds, Serge showed a little smile and answered, "How could I refuse such a generous invitation?" he took a seat in the booth across from the two raccoons, and motioned to the nervous waiter to serve the drinks as he was supposed to.

When Everyone had a full glass of sparkling wine in front of them, and the waiter had departed, Rick lifted his glass in salute to Noire, "I've got to hand it to you, Serge, that was one impressive stunt you pulled."

"Hm?"

"Oh don't be so modest." Rachelle said to Serge with a warm, knowing smile, "It was absolutely _genius,_ how you deftly maneuvered Lylat Central Intelligence into doing the dirty work for you: the dirty work of eliminating Haran."

"See, we traced the contact who tipped us off about the Amity attack." Rick explained, "Seems he's one of yours."

"And let's not forget your clever play for the endgame, when you handed the Cerberus vessel over to Garmir, after we got your hands on the ship again." Rachelle complimented, almost in mock-praise it seemed, "I mean, you _must _have known Garmir had a bloodthirsty vendetta against Haran for going rogue like he. Maybe he even tried to get you to intervene for him."

"But you're a respectable man now: you had _no_ business intervening in as overtly a method as your old friend Garmir wanted." Rick posited, taking a sip of the wine, "So you throw the desperate old pirate a bone, get his old ship back for him, and suddenly he feels like he can take on the gods. Granted, he did give Haran a damn good run for his money, even though I didn't plan for it."

"Like we were saying: a fine job, Serge." Rachelle complimented, raising her glass to the dark canid across from her.

"Still, there are some questions." Rick's expression and tone became a little more grim, directed at Serge. He was still coy, still a little playful, but he had and intent, scrutinizing look about him.

Keeping his cool, Serge lifted his own glass, and took a sip of the wine, "You seem to have all the answers already."

"True, we know _what_ happened." Rachelle agreed.

"The real question we want to ask, is _why?_" Rick corrected.

"Hm?"

"Let's be frank, Serge: you've got a good setup here." Rachelle began, "If one of your more prominent former pupils suddenly goes rogue, it's not like it can be traced back to you, not if you don't want it to be. For all intents and purposes, you didn't need to spend the time, energy and resources getting your hands dirty to clean this up."

"So, why bother getting Lylat Central Intelligence involved at all?" Rick asked.

And for once in a very, very long time, Serge smiled. It wasn't a very prominent smile, but neither of the Cooneys, nor much anybody else really, had seen the quiet aged canid express any emotion beyond a raised eyebrow, or cold decisive anger. Something as simple as a smile, even as subtle as his was, seemed utterly alien on his face.

The dark, slick-furred canid took another mall sip of of wine, and finally responded to the question, "You've seen what Haran was capable of, you've seen how dangerous he can be. Is that not motivation enough?"

"So you felt threatened by him?" Rick questioned, unsatisfied, almost impatient in his tone, "You did it to save your own skin, to protect your reputation? Or was it out of a sudden concern for the public good?"

"What harm is it if multiple motivations are aligned?" Asked in return, leaning back in a relaxed posture, "I believed you could get the job done, and so it is done. What more do you need?"

"Be that as it may, there other questions we're curious about." Rachelle replied.

Rachelle and her brother –in contrast to Serge's leisurely, laid back demeanor– were beginning to lean forward, tense, on the edge of their seats. Their coy jocularity from earlier had all but evaporated, and in its place was a direct determination.

"One such question." Rick began, "If you wanted us to take care of this Haran problem, why you didn't tell us more about the situation? Why keep us in the dark about the details, like that we were up against a psychotic Cerinian? Why did you withhold _so _much information that might have helped us, that might have saved more lives?"

"Because the methods I used _have _saved more lives." Serge answered, matching the stony glare that Rick was giving him.

"Care to elaborate?" Rachelle asked.

Serge downed all the wine left in his glass, and refilled it, before finally speaking, "The Cerinian people, and the full extent of their capabilities, are very much mired in rumor, conjecture, and mystery. If I had divulged the full extent of what I knew, would you –or rather, the analysts at your agency– have truly believed it? Do you honestly believe your agency would have treated my information as anything but unreliable and unbelievable hearsay? For all they would know, it could have been a trap, and my contact would have been marked as a threat. Furthermore, you needed to experience the threat you faced firsthand in order to truly appreciate it, so you would be all the more driven to confront it, and neutralize it, as you have done. Bravo."

"Perhaps there's a more informative question: why did this become a problem in the first place?" Rick asked, "Why would you decide train a Cerinian at all when, by your own admission, they _are_ such mysterious enigmas?"

For a long time, Serge said absolutely nothing. He simply sat back, his keen eyes bouncing back and forth between the prying, almost accusing glares of the two raccoons that sat across from him. After this time, he finally let out a small sigh, and answered, "I was curious."

"Curious?" Rachelle repeated, cocking her head a little to the side.

"As I have said, Cerinians are still very mysterious, as is the power they can command." Serge began, "I wanted to learn more about them: how their abilities work, how they think, feel, and how best to deal with them should one or more of them become a threat. However, I will concede that I was ill-prepared to manage a Cerinian, especially one as... mentally unstable as Haran turned out to be. My curiosity got the better of me, and I made a mistake..."

"I certainly hope you realize, Serge, the full extent of the consequences wrought by this mistake." Rick's voice carried an icy chill cold as death, and eyes sharp a daggers, "An archaeological expedition sent to Titania, the crew and passengers aboard the Sojurn, the casualties of the attack on the Amity, including–"

"Do not think to patronize me, _boy._" Serge cut him off suddenly, and leveled a very special breed of anger at the raccoon. It was a rage so cool, so sharp, so precise that if it were made material, it could probably split atoms, "Many of my finest students have also died at Haran's hand, or worse. I know full well the _consequences_ of my mistake. You may not approve of my methods, but I can say with confidence that I have done _everything_ in my power to set this mistake right."

Without missing a beat, Serge reached into a pocket and retrieved a palm-sized computer tablet. While he went to work, eyes focused down on the small touchscreen, the aged canid continued conversation.

"I will never be able to fully compensate you, or anyone else, for the losses incurred. The Cerberus crew I understand were of especially great value to your agency, and Lylat is worse off not to have them. Insufficient as it is though, I nonetheless offer you this..."

Serge set the palm-sized tablet on table, and a holographic display was enabled. It showed a projection of the white wolf Rick knew as 'Wiley', along with a display of information. It was a complete dossier,

"This is my complete file on Makita." Serge explained, "It contains his personal history, family, known associates, aliases, biometric parameters; everything you need to track him down and find him."

"What exactly do you expect us to do with him?" Rachelle asked, shaking her head, "He's a broken man."

"I expect that you can do much good with him." Serge answered, as he picked up the tablet and removed a small memory card from a port in its side, which he offered to the two raccoons, "He may be broken, but I believe you two are in a far better position than anyone else to _rebuild_ him, and put him to use."

\

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><p>

The quiet hum and rumble of machines rolled through the background, interrupted only by the steady plunking of footsteps against the metal floor panels. The footsteps belonged to a nervous wolf, walking through the lonely corridor. The black sweatshirt he wore contrasted in sharp opposition against his pale white fur. He passed door after yet another identical door through the corridor, searching for only one in particular.

Sargasso Station's living quarters were much like the rest of the secluded space station. Freshly installed wall panels standing right alongside ones that have suffered a long time before. So it was the same with everything else; constantly broken and constantly mended again, toughened the same way broken bones heal stronger than they were before. People were safe in Sargasso's arms, for they were the life-hardened and time-tamed arms of a weary grandfather. It didn't look like much on the surface, but Sargasso endures, and there's a comfort to be found in such stubborn persistence.

The wolf stopped, outside one of the simple cabin doors that were so similar to so many others, and he hesitated. He checked the number beside the door again to be certain it was the right one, glanced up and down the hallway to make sure he was alone. What if no one was there? Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. There's still time to turn back and call it off–

No, he's put this off way too long already...

He could've pressed the door's buzzer, but didn't. Instead, Wiley reached out his hand and knocked it against the door. The dull ringing resonating through the corridor, and another set of muffled footsteps plunked behind the door, getting louder.

Wiley glanced up, and spotted the small camera just above the doorway that'd reveal who he was to the cabin's occupant. And though there was an intercom, it stayed tensely silent. The wolf's breath came in quick and shallow despite his best attempts to control it, and his heart beat against his chest like an anxious drumroll. Maybe she wouldn't even answer the door–

The door slid open, and Carmen O'Donnell stood on the other side, waiting. It was her, but not quite as Wiley remembered. Her silver-gray fur was unkempt and matted in some places, her clothes were clean but somewhat worn-out. The lupine woman was weary with life, but in otherwise good health, holding on by some defiant vitality that Wiley could only wish he had more of himself.

"You..." Carmen uttered, sounding surprised, enraged and confused all at once.

Wiley went blank. He knew he should've said something, done something, or at least felt something; but he didn't know what at the moment. The flustered white wolf just stood there, at a loss...

In a sudden flash of anger, Carmen's hand bolted through the air forming a fist, and slammed into Wiley's left eye.

"Gah!..." the wolf yelped. The sudden blow caught him off his guard, sending him staggering back a few steps as he clutched his injured eye, "What the hell did you do that for?!"

"Shhh!" Carmen cut him off, "The baby's sleeping..."

"_Baby?_" the wolf asked, his voice lowered to an astonished whisper, "You have a _baby_ here?"

She wasn't looking at Wiley, but at the hand she ht him with as she clutched in with her other. She'd hit the miserable wolf with such force that she'd injured her hand in the process. It wasn't clear what Carmen O'Donnell was thinking, but for a few painfully long seconds, the two of them simply stood in quite opposition to each other. Both were hurt, and neither sure what they should do next...

"You're gonna want something for that eye." Carmen glanced up to her former lover, and experimentally flexed her aching fingers, "Maybe you'd better just come on inside." She turned and walked back into her apartment-like living quarters, with Wiley following close behind.

The space wasn't especially large, just a simple living area with a kitchenette shoved into one corner and a door –probably to a bedroom suite– tucked in another corner. Carmen continued through into that door, leaving her unexpected guest alone in the spartan front room...

Mostly alone.

There was a modern, high end mesh-sided infant bed off to one side of the room. The modular rig came complete with a built-in changing table, locking wheels for easy mobility, and mobile of spacecraft models dangling over it. All of it should've cost more than Carmen could afford on her seemingly shoestring budget, but there it was anyway. Wiley approached the crib, both curious and apprehensive of what he might find inside. What he found was a tiny silver-gray wolf pup, so peacefully asleep, in spite of the worse than unfavorable conditions surrounding him.

Carmen O'Donnell soon returned from the bedroom suite with a pair of cryotherapeutic 'cold-packs', one of which she offered to Wiley, "Here, put this on your eye."

The pale wolf took the cold-pack and did as instructed. The liquid-filled pouch was already ice cold as he held it up against his bruised eye socket, numbing the bitter pain underneath it.

"This is your pup?" Wiley asked, to which Carmen answered with just a simple nod, looking down, "So, who's the father?"

For some time, Carmen simply didn't respond at all. She just kept looking down, at her sleeping infant child. After several uncomfortably tense moments, Carmen finally looked up, looked Wiley square in the eye, giving him the answer to his question: _he_ was the father.

"It's _me?_" the pale wolf blurted as he came under a sudden wash of panic, "I'm his– When did– Why– I'm not–"

"This is our son, Mak." Carmen confirmed quietly, "His name is Wolf."

Wiley, or Mak as Carmen called him, started breathing rapidly, and not small breaths either. The wolf was practically hyperventilating, visibly shaky in his movements as he clasped his hand to his forehead, and staggered around in a tight circle.

"Are you feeling okay?" Carmen asked, seeing Mak like this.

"Fine!" he lied as he spun around to face his once lover, his eyes wide and terrified as dinner plates, "I mean... I'm a _dad, _and you're a _mom! _How did you– Why didn't I find out about– When did _you_ know about this?"

"I _tried_ to find you, Mak!" she snapped back, "I tried to get in contact with you, but you somehow just fell completely off the map! You didn't answer my calls, didn't get any of my messages."

"I was... kinda busy." the wolf sheepishly admitted.

"It was your 'work', wasn't it?" Carmen accused, knowing better, "The work you _never_ talk about."

"Yeah... work."

"Why did you come back at all?" she asked, with a strong underpinning of bitterness to her words and demeanor.

"I... uh..." Mak was at a loss, only able to gape back at Carmen O'Donnell, and stumble over himself trying to come up with the words, "God, I'm not even sure anymore."

A small cry from the baby crib interrupted everything. The tiny silver-gray wolf pup had woken up, and was making his presence known in the only way he could. Mak flinched at the sound of the pup, his son, but remained as baffled as ever. Carmen on the other hand responded immediately to her child.

She bent down and carefully lifted the infant Wolf in her arms, offering up some quiet words of comfort. The tiny pup quieted down a little as he clumsily graspedg at his mother, and looked up to her. Mak realized that the pup's eyes looked almost exactly like his: that odd, rare violet color.

With her baby somewhat calmed down in her arms, Carmen turned to her guest with a sigh, "Well, as long as you're here, you may as well make yourself useful."

"What do I do?"

"He's hungry." she answered, "There's some milk in the refrigerator. Get a bottle and warm it up."

Mak went to the small kitchenette and did as instructed. He did find a few full baby bottles among the other items, and removed one.

"You can't stay here, not on a places as rough as Sargasso, not with a kid..." With the bottle in-hand, Mak looked to Carmen with a somewhat quizzical expression, "How do you want this warmed up?"

"Just tun it under some hot water from the tap." she instructed, pointing out the kitchen sink, and continued the discussion, "It's not a permanent plan for sure, but Sargasso's treating us alright for now, since I have a job here that let's me support Wolf."

Mak held the bottle under the faucet, and started the flow of hot water. "Maybe the kid will be okay for now, while you can have him protected and watched over, but what happens when he gets older? What'll you do when he can run around on his own and get himself into trouble? You've seen the crowd that comes to this station, there's no way you'll be able to keep him safe here for much longer."

"When I get there, I'll figure something out." Carmen said, as she gently bounced Wolf in her arms.

When the bottle felt about warmed up, Mak switched off the tap and brought the bottle to Carmen, "Maybe I could... you know..." he offered the baby bottle, "Give you a hand with all this?"

She accepted the bottle, and held it to her infant son, who immediately snatched it and began suckling from the rubber teat. All the while, Carmen simply looked back at Mak, who had that confused, desperate look on his face. Still it was a face she had long given up on...

"I'm not really sure you _can_ help, even if I wanted you to." she finally managed to say, bracing herself for his protests.

"What? But I–" the pale wolf started fumbling around again, pacing and gesticulating, and tripping over the words as he tried to form them, "I can _be_ here for you Carmen, I really mean it. You don't have to go through this alone anymore."

"How could you _possibly_ help me?" Carmen asked as she stubbornly held her ground, clinging her feeding son tighter against her chest, "I haven't seen or heard from you in over a year: a _year!_ And now you show up on my doorstep like nothing happened, and somehow think you deserve something. Well have I got news for you: shit has in-fact happened, Mak. I moved on. I moved into a goddamn space station just so I could make enough money to support all this. Where were you when I needed you most? How do I know you won't disappear on me again?"

"I can change!" Mak's breath came is spastic gasps, "Goddamn it Carmen I can change; give me the chance, and I'll prove it to you. I won't disappear anymore. I'll stay here, with you, and the baby, and we can do the family thing–"

"But you haven't changed a bit." Carmen forced, shaking her head, "After all that time away, after so much has happened with me, I look at you now, and I still see the same mysterious enigma of a man that I used to be infatuated with. It just won't work." The troubled lupine woman turned away and headed for Wolf's crib, on the other side of her quarters.

"You gotta believe me Carmen, I don't want that shit life anymore..." Mak pursued her, pleading, grasping for anything, "You're the only thing I got left that's any good, and I don't wanna loose you."

With her back to the white wolf and her face hidden, Carmen set her son down in his crib to rest. The lupine infant was content to be oblivious to the surrounding tension, and happily sucked on his bottle, "I'm sorry Mak, but you can't help me."

"Don't do this." he extended his hand, reaching out to Carmen, and placed his shaking hand on her shoulder, "I _need_ you."

"No..." she cringed at Mak's touch, recoiling as if his hand were a hot iron. She still kept her face hidden, standing over her son as a loyal guardian, "You've already shown you don't need me, and I know that I don't need you anymore either."

"Carmen please, I–" she whipped around to face Mak, abruptly revealing a face ravaged by inner conflicts, barely holding in tears. There was anger, fear, anxiety, and despair all vying for dominance, but none coming out on top. "...I love you."

Their gazes locked; a connecting line which spanned between the lupine pair with enough tension on it to play music by, or simply snap.

Another fist formed in Carmen O'Donnell's hand and she pulled it back for another blow, but sh hesitated. She saw a flash of utter terror appear in Mak's eyes, but not from the punch itself. He was looking directly at Carmen, and seeing his last hope disappear.

Seeing this, Carmen stayed her hand, and slowly lowered it to her side, "If you really do love me, if you really mean what you say, then please, stay away from me and my son." her words were painful, both to herself, and to Mak, "There's no room in my life for you, not when you're like this."

"You don't mean that."

Carmen reached out, and pushed back against him, steadily leading the white wolf backward toward the outer door, "I'm going to be okay, you don't have to worry about me."

"Don't give up on me Carmen..." Mak wasn't resisting, or arguing, or outwardly protesting at all. He let himself be pushed away, "I'll make things right, I swear... I'll come back for you and our pup... I'm gonna get you two outta this dive, and we'll have a life together..."

Almost accidentally, a tear escaped her wavering eye and ran down her face. Through a grimace of pure pain, Carmen O'Donnell forced the words out of her mouth and into the air for Mak to hear, "It's time for you to go."

She gave him one last nudge beyond the boundary of her living quarter's doorway. And with the push of a button on the wall panel, the sliding door slammed shut between them.

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><p>

The Uncia family, as well as invited guests, were all in a state of mourning.

Chakori Uncia came from a prominent, well-established Fortunan family, which meant there were very large, and very elaborate funeral rites. They were highly symbolic in their nature, evocative of an old spirituality that used to govern so many people's lives on Fortuna.

In the old beliefs of Fortuna, death wasn't seen as an end, but as merely a turning point in the endless journey of the spirit. The spirit would eventually find its way back into this world, to be reincarnated anew in a birth, and continue its journey. Life was cyclical this way: the body returned to the world to provide for new life, so it followed for the old Fortunans to believe that the spirit would do the same, and one day return to live again. It was vastly different than most of the other religious beliefs, like the most prominent: the Church of Lyla, which preached an afterlife in a paradise. There were variations and diversions everywhere, but it largely followed a similar model. In any case, it didn't matter as much in these days.

So it was at the funeral ceremony held for the recently deceased Chakori Uncia, on Fortuna, in her home city of Jhelut. A procession had already gone through the city, from the lavish Uncia family estate, to the crematorium as was the custom for wealthy Fortunan families. There was a hearse, and a long trail of mourners, Similar to Cornerian practices. Traditional Fortunan practice for the mourners was to wear white, but outside influences had crept in, and many others wore black. It was a muddled river of black and white through the streets, with old Fortunan customs and dress mingling with modern foreign fashions and sensibilities.

The Uncia family, as well as Scott, Pigma, James and several others he didn't recognize, had gathered at the crematorium was where the ceremony proper took place. It was much like a temple, decorated with the exotic flare that was expected of traditional Fortunan spiritual symbolism, but carried a somber feel appropriate for a funereal venue.

Vixy Reinard had come to the funeral as well. James had gotten in contact with Vixy after the shock of the operation had worn down. He wanted to reconnect, felt a desire to pursue this lead with Vixy, if only because she was one of a very, very tiny handful of good things at the moment. It wasn't Jame's idea to bring her to Chakori's funeral though. When he told Vixy where he was going, what he was doing, she _insisted_ on accompanying him there. Chakori had left quite an impression on Vixy during and after the attack on the Amity, so the vixen felt obligated to pay her respects to the leopardess, and she simply wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. It was hardly Jame's idea of a proper date, but considering how their 'first date' went, it was at least a step in the right direction.

The fox and vixen stood together side-by-side, in the midst of a crowd of somber onlookers at the crematorium. James was in a black suit he'd rented, and likewise was Vixy clothed in a modest black dress next to him. Scott was there too, his dark fur nearly vanishing into the black of his own suit.

Chakori's body occupied the center of the temple-like crematorium, with a white veil draped over her. Surrounding her were a number of people who James guessed were Chakori's immediate family. There were about three or four generations of ash-gray leopards represented in the group: some small children who barely knew what was going on, several deeply saddened young men and women, a handful of stony middle-aged felines, and a few venerable individuals who'd gone through this many times it seemed.

One of the younger gray leopards was pacing around Chakori's veiled body, reading aloud from a scroll in some archaic Fortunan dialect James couldn't recognize. He'd be one of Chakori's brothers, as it was customary for the eldest brother to perform the rites at the funeral of an unmarried woman. At least, that's what James had been told.

Most of the gathered Uncia family were very quiet, very somber, very respectful for the occasion. One of the middle aged women though, Chakori's mother by the looks of her, kept shooting absolutely scathing glares at Scott every time she could. James suspected there might have been some bad blood there, between Chakori's mother and Scott, but it wasn't his business. The fox kept to himself, observing the rites and paying his respects as everyone else was, with Vixy's hand holding his at their sides.

Some minutes passed, and the ceremony continued much as it had. There was some activity though from the Uncia family. Chakori's mother, to the concern of the other gray felines, and seemingly against the protests of her husband, stepped away from the group and approached Scott Aberdeen with outrage in her eyes.

"The ceremony is for family and close friends." the older leopardess said to Scott as dryly as she could, "I respectfully request that you leave."

"I have every reason to be here." the terrier replied quietly, trying not to look directly back at her, "Chakori and I worked together for well over fifteen years."

"That makes you a _coworker, _a _colleague, _not a friend of the family." Chakori's mother insisted, growing more agitated, "Please leave."

"I'm staying..." Scott looked straight into the older leopardess's eyes, "I have been more a of a friend to Chakori than anyone else in this room, far more so than _you_ ever were."

"How _dare_ you!" the older feline woman snapped, fueled by her boiling outrage.

Another figure came up alongside her: a man of the same species and breed; her husband, "What is the matter, dear?" he asked.

"This Cornerian mongrel is one of those dreadful _mercenaries _that our Chakori fell in with." she informed the newcomer, indignation dripping off her every word, "He has no right to observe her last rites. He is the reason she's _dead!_"

That last phrase stung Scott, cut him very, very deep. All the terrier could do was look down, and try to hide his eyes. She was more right about what she said than she could possibly know.

"Rashmi please, do not blame this one." the older leopard said, gently held his wife by her shoulders as he tried to calm her, "Chakori always had a defiant, rebellious streak."

"And you _indulged_ it, Prakash!" Rashmi spat, directing her fury toward her husband now.

"The tighter we tried to control her, the more fiercely she fought to break free. Surely you remember that." Prakash responded, growing firmer in his tone, "She would only resent us even more if we kept her here."

"But at least she would still live!" she insisted, fighting back her near hysterical tears.

"This is not the time or place, Rashmi." the ash gray leopard insisted to his wife in a cool, firm voice, then tuned to Scott, "My sincerest apologies–"

"Don't bother." the terrier grumbled, avoiding eye-contact, "I'll go."

Just as Scott turned away to leave though, Vixy stepped forward to the troubled feline couple. The dark terrier stopped then, if only to see what happened.

James saw the vixen doing this, and reached out to her, "Vixy, what are you–"

She brushed his arm away, interrupting him, "I know what I'm doing."

The two locked eyes for a moment, not in itself something new between them, but this time was different. This time, James saw in her fierce green eyes a sheer determination like he'd never seen from her before. Trusting her with whatever she had, James nodded, and observed as Vixy acted.

The vixen went right up to the tense couple, and politely made herself known to them, "Excuse me."

"I do not believe we've met." Prakash said, eyeing the newcomer with a curious, assessing look.

"I'm Vixy Reinard." she introduced, "I was a passenger aboard the Amity when it came under attack."

"My sympathies." the older leopard said, offering a small bow to Vixy, "I am glad for your safety, though I wish I could express it under happier circumstances."

"I have your daughter to thank for my safety, actually." she said in an encouraging tone.

While it may not have lifted the couple's spirits, this unexpected interjection from Vixy Reinard managed to release some of their tension, as they waited attentively to hear more of what she had to say.

"I only knew Chakori for a few days, but she's a hero in my book." the young vixen continued, "She and her teammates came to the rescue of the Amity when we were attacked, and led us all to safety aboard their own ship. I don't think I or my fellow passengers would have made it if not for your daughter acting as bravely as she had. I owe her... everything, really."

"That's very kind of you to say." Rashmi said, giving a small thanking smile to Vixy.

"You see? Our Chakori lived her life in service to others." Prakash said, raising his voice in praise, "Today, let us honor her bravery and selflessness, and thank her for the happiness she has brought to so many because of it."

"I hope..." the older leopardess said quietly, looking at James and Vixy, "that the spirit of charity and courage that our daughter held, shall live on with you."

"We will live by her example, I promise." James replied with a solemn sincerity.

"It's the very least we can do." Vixy agreed.

"Thank you." Rashmi said, with as much gratitude as could be expected in her grim circumstances.

Chakori's parents left the two, and resumed their part in the funeral ceremony. As grim and as grave as it was, being after all, a funeral, James felt so much of the dreariness of it all just wash off. He could feel himself and Vixy standing much closer together now, leaning into each other for support.

James McCloud meant what he said about living by Chakori's example. He'd find a way, or several. Considering the opportunities that'd been cropping up, there were plenty of avenues through which to pursue such a life. In any case, he had a feeling he might share much of it with the lady he had his arm around now.

* * *

><p>Author Notes:<p>

I finally, put out another chapter for this story! My gosh it has been way too long. Got at least one more chapter to go to wrap up this volume, then we can move on to other adventures, other tales of daring do!

So yeah, this is one of the first instances, so far, of me recycling some old material. Keen old-time readers of mine may remember the scene with Carmen O'Donnell, Wolf's mother, and that it's pretty similar here to how it was, with some editing of course.

Edit: after some consideration, I decided to remove an excess portion of text. looking at it, it didn't serve much purpose to the scene itself, so I followed my usual mantra of "keep only what's necessary in the scene" and had it removed. Also, many thanks to K.S. Reynard for reminding me of that.

Oh, and speaking of; I'd be very happy to hear from you about anything else about this chapter and/or story as well. It's really you folks, you readers and writers of reviews, that help keep me motivated to keep this story going.

Until next time, take care, and keep out of too much trouble!  
>chaos_Leader<p> 


	21. For Want of an Epilogue

**不十分結語 **

_**For Want of an Epilogue**_

"Try not to keep him waiting, kid." the pilot called back as James McCloud stepped out of the shuttle onto the Hangar floor, nearly stumbling.

Earlier this morning –about a few hours too early for a decent wakeup time– Owen Phoenix invited James McCloud to Château de l'Étoiles. Phoenix was kind of frantic over the comm, said there'd be a shuttle at the spaceport waiting to take him to the station. Sure enough, there was a shuttle, and before he knew it, he was standing aboard Owen Phoenix's private fortress of a space station, still trying to wake up.

Heck he may as well have been dreaming, seeing a hangar chock full of high-performance spacecraft. Most of them were Space Dynamics models, like classic frames like the original Comet fighter, but a few were of different brands. James could've sworn he saw a suspiciously similar Havoc assault fighter at one end...

"Right this way, Mr. McCloud." the fox heard a tinny, artificial voice utter.

The voice belonged to a bipedal android, one of the popular R.O.B. models, but with a shimmering chrome-plated finish. When it saw it had James' attention, the robot turned away and started walking toward the hangar exit, past a few more rows of resting spacecraft.

James followed, casually asking, "Do these all belong to Owen Phoenix?"

The shining robot didn't answer, but kept walking right along. Soon they were out of the hangar, and inside an awfully lavish corridor for a space station: fine carpet, high ceilings, intricate lighting fixtures. There were also pieces of artwork, mostly depicting impressive images of aerospace aviation, as well as a few mounted or displayed pieces of equipment. One that caught James' eye was a vintage G-diffuser module: the Guru, one of the first ever mass-produced some fifty years ago...

Before he could take a good look at anything else though, James found himself in an elevator with the robotic guide, already on the move...

It was odd for James McCloud. Part of him was like a kid in a candy store, nearly bouncing at delight at where he found himself: going to meet one of the famous greats of the modern aerospace aviation industry. Then the groggy smartass adolescent part of him reminded James that he'd actually already met Owen Phoenix in-person back on Farbound station, and he shouldn't be so giddy about it. Somewhere in his head the mature grown-up brought caution into the midst: what did Owen Phoenix want with him? What kind of work would he have for a brash, bone-headed pilot who, quite frankly, is prone to bite off more than he can chew?

Hopefully those answers would come soon, as the elevator came to a stop, and opened up to a luxurious reception area, or lobby, or something. The only other door in this room besides that which opened into the elevator was a double door: probably where Owen Phoenix was waiting. There was no window, but the walls were adorned with a few items of aerospace aviation artwork and mounted equipment like before. James paid little attention however, because more important than _what_ was in the room was _who_

"Jimmy!" Peppy called out, practically jumping up from a couch when the fox stepped in, "What the heck took you so long? You stop for breakfast on the way over?"

"If you'd have asked, I would've brought you some of the steak and eggs." James replied with a similar jocular banter, adding a little laugh at the end as he shook his old friend's hand, "It's good to see you again, Peppy."

Predictably, James also spotted Scott and Pigma in the room too, but more subdued. Scott looked worn out and tired, while young Pigma seemed nervous and fidgety, unsure about the situation.

"Scott!" James called out, stepping toward him with open arms and a strong sense of confidence, "I thought I saw your Havoc fighter out in the hangar."

The terrier simply looked back, and responded with a silent nod. Understandably, James figured he was still in a deep rut after the loss of Cerberus, of his crewmates, of his friends. Still, what more could he do besides extend a hand of friendship of his own? There wouldn't be time to pursue this more though: the R.O.B. model that led James here had already gone to the double doors, and turned around.

"Mr. Phoenix will see you now." the chrome-plated robot unceremoniously blared to the group, then punched in a command in the door's wall panel.

The double door slid open, and the R.O.B. model led the four guests into what could only be the most blatantly extravagant office possible. The space was huge, at least fifteen meters across, with a high ceiling. The far wall wasn't even a wall at all, but a gigantic window that looked out into space, overlooking the curve of Corneria below.

The room itself was sparsely furnished, but comfortably serviced: a lounge setup by the far wall-window, shelves stuffed with hard documents, and again more pieces of equipment put on display. The center of the room however was a dedicated office, with the expected chair-and-desk setup. An orange furred fox, wearing slacks and a sweater vest, was standing behind the desk: Owen Phoenix. He didn't even notice his guests enter, since he was staring intently at a holographic display of sly-looking feline in a pinstripe suit.

"The management of Caius Company simply doesn't feel compelled anymore to invest the funds previously negotiated for the Comet 4 fighters." the feline declared over the comm.

"Really?" Owen Phoenix replied, highly skeptical, "I don't recall there being any trouble with the Comet. The craft performs exactly as advertised; we even had _your _pilots assess the Comet 4 for themselves, _'a bargain at ten times the price' _they claimed."

"It's not the Comet itself, per-se." the cat on the other end of the channel clarified, "We've recently been informed that Space Dynamics is hiring James McCloud, one of our former employees."

James nearly stopped dead in his tracks overhearing this. He was partly outraged, partly confused, partly angry, and partly worried. Space Dynamics wasn't hiring him, unless that's what this meeting was for, which it probably was.

"I am considering hiring him, for _periodic contract work_. I'm not bringing him into the company for an easy salary." Owen insisted, clearly unamused by what was going on with this associate, "For that matter, what exactly do my hiring decisions have to do with the Comet 4 contract?"

"You _do _understand that McCloud was recently discharged from Caius Company for blatant neglect of duty; neglect that resulted in the death of his squad and the loss of the Amity." the feline businessman duly noted, "Management feels the decision for you to employ him calls into doubt the integrity of Space Dynamics, enough so that they feel we need to reconsider the terms of the Comet 4 contract–"

"Mr. Phoenix." the R.O.B. model uttered in its tinny mechanical voice, causing both Owen and the representative on the comm to stop in surprise.

"You'll have to excuse me for a moment." the fox said as he pressed a button on his desk, and the holographic image winked out. Owen released an exasperated sigh, shook his head and asked, "R.O.B. 42, what _is_ it?"

"Your appointment, Mr. Phoenix." the android answered, gesturing to James, Peppy, Pigma and Scott all gathered there.

"Oh! My god, you're right!" Owen exclaimed upon seeing them, and immediately put on a welcoming, energized state of being as he approached the group, "I'm sorry you had to walk in on that. It just cropped up a few minutes ago, and I got focused in on it."

"Is uh, this a bad time or something?" Pigma asked, while he looked around to the others.

"I tell ya what: we all can wait outside until you're wrapped up here." Peppy suggested.

"No no that's alright." the fox said, "I'll have this finished up faster than–"

"Why the _hell_ is that stuck-up bastard talking about me like that?" James demanded, pointing at the sleeping holographic display on the desk. "Neglect of duty? Seriously?"

"You're absolutely right, I agree. I just need to take care of this real quick, and I'll be with you in a minute." Owen said as he gestured toward the four chairs in front of his desk. Then he turned to the conspicuous robot standing in the middle of all this, "R.O.B. can get you grab some drinks or something?"

With that, the silvery robot turned and walked off, while Owen Phoenix rubbed his forehead with a thoughtful grimace.

"Is this Phoenix guy for real?" James asked Peppy as they sat down, almost under his breath.

"Not gonna lie, he's kinda wonky." the hare answered with a shrug, "but I figure he must be doing _something _right."

The holographic display came online again, showing the somewhat peeved image of the Caius Company representative, "I don't appreciate being put on hold this way, Mr. Phoenix."

"I apologize for the interruption. My assistant brought something to my attention." the fox replied in a cordial tone, however forced it was, "I believe we were discussing the Comet 4 contract: I'm listening."

"Bear in mind, Mr. Phoenix, the management of Caius Company is still interested in acquiring the Comet 4s with the standard support package, just not quite as interested as they were before, and they are considering other options." the feline informed, with a practiced professional tone, "If I may make a suggestion to better secure the Comet 4 contract: I highly recommend a ten percent expense deduction for the entire contract. That should be more than enough to seal the contract."

"If my memory serves me correctly, you were _more_ than happy with the Comet 4 contract before I started looking into James McCloud. You chose the Space Dynamics Comet 4 because of superior, proven quality, not because it's the cheapest flying scrap you can get your hands on. You can't just expect me to give Caius Company a discount because management is supposedly feeling a little queasy about my hiring decisions."

"It's not my call to make I'm afraid." the representative shook his head with a shrug, "I'm simply laying out the field."

"Alright. Fine. Say I refuse the deduction: what does management do then?" Owen asked, trying his best not to show his irritation.

"Personally, I don't feel it is a wise choice on their part, but management is considering making McCloud's disastrous service record with Caius Company public. There's a journalist they're planing to use to write and publish the story, taking a blow at the public image of Space Dynamics."

A flash of rage went through James then, hearing his former employer's plan. He tensed up, got ready to stand up and burst out right there, but Peppy had reached over and laid a hand on the fox's shoulder. The hare held him back, giving James that look: the look that said 'stay back'

"You're damn right it's not a wise choice!" Owen spouted back, mirroring James' thoughts exactly.

The orange fox stood back a moment, hands on his hips, shaking his head with a sigh, "Look, listen, let me help you do 'management' a huge favor, alright? Inform your bosses of this: James McCloud is a _hero. _During the attack on the Amity, he courageously helped to evacuate the passengers and crew and brouht them to safety at Farbound station. After that, he assisted the Cerberus crew in eliminating the public threat once posed by both Harrow _and_ Garmir. James McCloud is an example for private military contractors everywhere to follow. Frankly I'm surprised Caius Company decided to discharge him at all."

"Mr. Phoenix, I must protest." the representative retorted as a scowl formed on his face, "It's not as simple as you make it sound–"

"You're right: it's even _simpler _than I make it sound." Owen snapped back, "Now look, I appreciate the sentiment of what you're trying to do; you're bargaining, you're working the angles, you're doing your job; I respect that. But please, for the love of Lyla, try to find a more reliable bargaining chip than half-hearted, poorly conceived blackmail. It simply does _not _work out well when you try to publicly smear a hero." With probably more force than was necessary, the orange fox punched a command into the panel on his desk, and the holographic display winked out in front of him.

"Is everything alright?" Peppy asked, a little concerned, "Seemed a little heated there."

"It's nothing really, just a little friendly haggling." Owen Phoenix replied, slipping effortlessly back into the same jovial, welcoming demeanor he had before, "Gotta cut the boys at Caius Company a little slack though: they _are_ dealing with a major blow to their trade, having lost the Amity on their watch. Now they're scrambling to pinch their credits and tighten their belts wherever they can."

"Let them scramble and suffer. They deserve no less." James huffed, arms crossed.

"True, threatening character assassination is a low blow." Owen agreed as he sat down behind his desk and activated the holographic display again: working on some document or other, "But honestly, even though I believe you _would _come out better if they tried, it just isn't good for anyone to deal with that kind of public smearing mess. Besides, Caius Company has been a good customer, and I _am_ running a business. I'll let them stew for a bit, then call them back with a five percent deduction as a reasonable compromise: they'll bite, and it's not an unacceptable price for me. And who knows, with the Comet 4 in their arsenal, maybe they'll get better results with their business, and won't have to resort to underhanded smear tactics to shave a few credits. If not, well... then it's not a problem new hardware could fix, and you can't say I didn't do what I could to help..."

The orange fox closed the desktop display, and turned his attention to his four guests, most of whom had been blankly staring back during Owen's tirade. James simply glared out into some distant point, to whoever in Caius Company had the nerve to use his service record as blackmail...

"But anyway, we're not here to get you bored with my business decisions, at least, not _those _business decisions. Long story short: I've got a job that I need a few good pilots to do, and I hope I can count on you to be those pilots. Scott, since you're the surviving member of the original Cerberus crew, that makes you the de-facto leader, privy to the crew's assets–"

"I'm not doing this gig anymore." The terrier grunted, "I'm done."

As miffed as James was about Caius Company, it was small potatoes to Scott. He was still bitter, still defeated, still worn out from everything he lost, or so James McCloud could determine.

"I know this is a hard time for you Scott," Owen said in a concerned tone; but James couldn't quite tell if it was real or genuine, "but there's still a lot of work to be done and–"

"Then find someone else to do your dirty work!" Scott snapped as he rose to his feet, "I've made my decision and I'm sticking by it: I'm retired now."

Without another moment or another sound, the weary terrier turned and started toward the double door,

"Scott?" Pigma blurted as he rose to his feet, and went after him, "Scott wait a second!"

A flash of some uncertain panic ran through James at that moment. There was Scott: leaving, he was committed to go and nobody was going to stop him, he was too stubborn to listen to anyone. The youth of a swine Pigma was following, trying to reassure the terrier, clinging to the last familiar colleague he had from Cerberus. Owen Phoenix looked on: he seemed disappointed, but unsurprised, already making new plans behind those thinking eyes of his. Peppy kept looking back and forth between Scott and Pigma, and James. He was asking McCloud something, but James wasn't paying attention...

There was something he had to do.

"What's the job?" James McCloud asked, and he stepped forward to Owen Phoenix's desk.

He heard the footsteps of Scott and Pigma behind his back end, giving way to a silence. The silence occupied instead by images; an intrigued, curious expression on Owen Phoenix's face. Behind him, a brilliant light crept over the curve of Corneria below: a sunrise.

"You said you're looking for a few good pilots." James recited, feeling a confident certainty fueling his words. It felt good, it felt right, "Well sir, I think you've got them."

Owen Phoenix didn't say anything, but simply scrutinized the younger fox in front of him, and stepped out from behind the desk. He was about to say something, but–

"Are ye out of your bloody _mind?!_" Scott's voice barked from behind, immediately followed by quick footsteps closer. He was coming back.

James smiled as he heard that grumpy voice, and the determined footsteps that came after, closing right up to his side. A moment later he saw the dark terrier at the edge of his vision, no doubt glaring at him.

"Ye don't have any experience in this field, lad! Ye don't know any contacts, not familiar with the market, don't know the lay of the land!" Scott scolded, like an angry father who knew better and dammit, he was going to let his son know it, "Ye may as well throw yourself to a pack of sharks!"

"So you _do _care." James turned to Scott with that smile still beaming on his face. He actually had to hold back a laugh, seeing that infuriated scowl on the terrier's face, "I'm touched Scott, I really am."

"Aye, sure, laugh it up. Tisn't any joking matter I can promise ye." Scott grumbled as he rolled his eyes, "Ye take that job now –won't matter what it is– and you'll be dead in six months: mark my words."

"Scott–"

"Stuff it up yer arse, Owen!" the terrier spat, interrupting the orange fox, "I ought to have walked away that day so many years ago. I shouldn't have done so many of the things that I did, but not knowing any better at the time I went and did them anyway. I've seen enough decent blokes die doing this, or be pulled into a right nasty mess, or both, and I don't want that to happen to you if I can help it, so for the love of Lyla don't take the job. Go back and reenlist in the Cornerian Armed Forces if you have to, do _anything_ else, but don't do this."

"Why not?" James asked.

"I told ye why not: you're just not ready for it." Scott muttered, trying not to make eye-contact. Under his outrage, under his anger and bitterness, there might have been something else: fear. Fear of losing James? Fear the young fox might become like him?

"You know what Scott? You're right." James agreed, "I _don't_ have the experience, and I probably _will_ make a lot of mistakes. Still, this job is going to get done one way or another, if not by us then by someone else: someone even _less_ ready, someone even _better_ off doing anything else. Personally, I'm committed to taking this job, and nothing you say is going to change that, not that I don't appreciate the thought though. If you are _still_ committed to not wanting to see me dead or tangled up in some mess or both, and you can't just talk me out of it, there is another option, and I think you know what that is."

James McCloud stepped back, and folded his arms as the terrier was put on the spot. Everyone was watching him now, waiting to know what his response would be to the determined upstart of a fox. Scott was squirming under the pressure and scrutiny, fidgeting. He tried a few times to say something, but kept stopping, kept trying again, until he finally stammered a few words.

"You... lad... are one impossible, stubborn piece of work." and Scott turned away, shaking his head.

"So, does that mean you're back?" James asked.

"Ah _bollocks._" the terrier uttered with a sigh, and turned back around, "Richard would never let me hear the end of it if I left ye out to dry: I'm back."

"And the record for shortest retirement ever goes to: Scott Aberdeen!" the fox announced with a smug round of applause, and turned to Peppy next to him, "What's his time?"

"Couldn't have been more than a few minutes." the hare quipped as he held back a chuckle.

"Two minutes and thirty-nine seconds, actually." Pigma corrected.

"Go choke on your own bile, the lot of ye." the terrier grumbled halfheartedly.

In all that commotion, no one had really noticed that the chrome-plated R.O.B. 42 model had returned, pushing a small cart laden with the assorted drinks Owen Phoenix had sent him out to get.

"Well then," the orange fox began, "now that you've gotten that all sorted out, are you clowns ready to hear about the job yet?"

\

* * *

><p>

Agent Richard Cooney was being led to the holding cells of Interpatrol's office on the Yomai-yor freeport station, wearing a clean black suit. Rick didn't much like putting on the crisp suit and earpiece getup that screamed 'I am a government agent'. He preferred something less conspicuous, something that made it easier to blend into the background. Still, it occasionally paid to assume an air of authority and broadcast one's status as an agent. Usually this was to get through another authority, like an Intapatrol officer holding a prisoner the agent needed to see.

Rick's host was Interpatrol Captain Westgort, a hulking mastif canid that stood head and shoulders above Rick, and who proudly told the story behind their latest detainee as they walked through the Interpatrol compound.

"We caught him stowed away on a transport: an assorted foodstuffs shipment from the distribution port out of the Sargasso. He sneaked right in with the dockworkers and boxed himself up with enough grub and water to last the trip; pretty clever." Captain Westgort said with a hint of admiration, "The ID he had on him wasn't his of course. He swiped it from one of the workers and altered a bit. We already ran his prints and eyes, but didn't come up with anything from the databases. You say you've got a match on him though?" the mastif asked, turning to his sharp-dressed guest.

"That's right." Rick replied in a tone of authority, "Lylat Central Intelligence has a certain interest in your mysterious John Doe."

"What interest, exactly?" Westgort asked, "He's a ghost."

"Details are classified, but like you say: he's a ghost" Rick replied with a little smirk, "We in the intelligence circles happen to like ghosts."

"Gotcha, playing it secret and spooky, spy-like." the mastif said with nervous a chuckle, just as he stopped outside a security door, "Anyway, I've him set up in this interrogation room just like you wanted: no cameras, no mics, no nothing."

"Thank you, Captain." the raccoon said with a small nod.

"You sure you don't want us to keep tabs, you know, for safety's sake?" Captain Westgort asked.

"The guards you posted outside will be enough," Rick assured him, in a tone that suggested his mind was made up, "I'll be out soon."

"Okay then, it's your show." the mastiff said with a shrug as he opened the security door with his keycard.

Without another word to the Interpatrol officer, Rick stepped inside the room, and the sliding door sealed him inside. It was a very drab room; four gray walls, a table in the center, and a chair on either side; about what Rick would've expected for an interrogation room.

In one of these chairs was a familiar figure: Wiley, or Mak as others have called him, or 'Makita' according to the dossier Serge had given Rick. The pale wolf was wearing a dull red jumpsuit and boots that must've been the dockworker's uniform, as well as a pair of handcuffs binding his wrists together. Most troubling of all though was the dull glassy-eyed stare on his face, gazing past the wall, and not even glancing up at the raccoon who came to see him.

"Cameras are off, microphones are off." Rick informed, walking slowly around the table, "We're alone here, it's just you and me."

Slowly, Wiley looked up at Rick, and a skeptical look formed over the vacant expression on his face. It looked like he was about to ask a question, or make a snide comment–

In the span of an instant, the wolf sprang from his chair, grabbed Rick by the lapels of his suit jacket and slammed his back down against tabletop with a heavy _thump! _The movement happened so fast, so suddenly, that Rick really wasn't able to react. To his surprise and relief though, Rick didn't feel any major damage from Wiley's attack, not even a bruise, if it even was an attack at all...

For the moment, the wolf just stood over the agent in his clutches, looking down, and simply waited. Rick was just about to ask what the hell Wiley was doing, though he already the agent had a few ideas what. Just as the shock of the moment dissipated though, a quiet sigh of relief escaped the wolf, and the tensions in his body relaxed.

"So, we really are alone then." Wiley said in a dry voice as he released the raccoon, and took a step back, "Sorry about that, I just wanted to be sure you were telling the truth."

"That was good thinking, actually." Rick quickly complimented as he got back to his feet and brushed himself off, "If the guards _were _monitoring us, they'd be in here by now, taking it out on you."

Wiley let out a grunt in response, then sat back down in the chair he was in earlier, and bluntly asked, "What are you doing here?"

The Rick stepped around the table, and took a seat opposite the white wolf. He waited a moment, examining that vacant stare in Wiley's eyes before replying, "There's no sense in concealing the truth from you: I spoke with Carmen O'Donnell."

At this, the wolf awkwardly raised one of his cuffed hands to his forehead and slouched low, muttering, "Ah hell..."

"Wait," the raccoon said as he held up one hand, and removed a digital recorder from inside his jacket pocket with the other, and set it down on the table between them, "Just listen..."

Rick pressed the play button on the recorder, and there was a brief moment of tense silence across the table. Wiley stared at the little handheld device, part curious, part terrified, part confused, but sitting still as a wooden post, even as the audio finally began to sound...

"I understand he came to visit you a few weeks ago." Rick's voice asked politely from the recorder's speaker, "Do you mind if I ask what happened during that visit?"

"He... Honestly I'm not sure exactly what Mak wanted, or if even _he_ knew." Carmen's voice replied, "He was vague with his answers, but then again, he always was. When he found out that I had a son –_his_ son– he wanted move in with me, to help raise him... I turned him away."

"Is it alright if I ask why?"

The recording was silent for a moment, and worried grimace formed on the wolf's face.

"He's in trouble, isn't he?" Carmen said in an exacerbated, knowing tone, "Trouble is all he knows, all he's good for."

At this, Wiley shrugged in his chair, and uttered a grunt that could be a kind of chuckle as he slowly shook his head.

"He's being held in an Interpatrol holding facility," Rick's voice in the recording answered, "he was caught stowing away on a freighter."

"What's your interest in him, Agent Cooney, if you don't mind _me _asking?" Carmen asked, now with a more prying tone.

"Lylat Central Intelligence feels he has valuable insight on certain topics, and may make a valuable asset for such topics."

"But why _him?_" Carmen asked, clearly dissatisfied with Rick's vague answer, "What makes _his_ insight, above so many others like him, so valuable to your agency?"

"It's best if I don't go into details, for your safety."

"Pfft, Mak always said that exact same thing to me when I asked about what he does: _'for my safety'._" Carmen scoffed in mockery of Rick's polite, official tone he'd been using during the interview, "I know better: I know that he does shady underground mercenary work. And also, to answer your question from earlier, _that's_ why I turned him away. I don't want someone who knows trouble the way he does to raise my son, and invite more trouble into my life. So tell me, Agent Cooney, of all the dirty rotten lowlife scumbags in Lylat, what makes Mak so special to you?"

A period of silence went on after Carmen's harsh reply. Hearing it, the pale wolf on the other side of the table kept very still; the kind of stillness one might have if they were shell-shocked, or if they were trying to contain a very powerful swell of emotion.

"I told you I can't go into details, but consider this:" Rick's voice in the recording finally said in a grim tone, "After being away from you and silent for so long, Mak came back to you, desperate to reunite. In the time he was absent from you, I _can_ tell you that Mak found himself in trouble so deep, so terrifying, that instead of possibility facing it again, he wanted to leave it all behind to be with you and your son. That specific trouble Mak experienced _is_ the insight that interests LCI, and it's why we are willing to overlook his pockmarked past to recruit him."

Wiley cocked his head at that last sentence, and shot a quizzical, almost disbelieving look across the table to Rick. He seemed almost ready to ask a question, but was cut short by the recording.

"You want to make him an agent, like you?" Carmen's voice asked, her vocal tone matching the wolf's expression almost exactly.

"Yes." Rick's voice replied.

After another short span of awkward silence, Carmen spoke again, softly, asking, "Can you help him?"

At that moment Rick reached out, stopped the recording, and said in a quiet voice, "That's the real question, isn't it?"

"What do you think you're trying to pull? _Recruit_ me?" Wiley demanded in a kind of confused outrage, "What the hell do you _want _with me?!"

"The Agency has a real interest in Cerinians now." the raccoon informed calmly, in stark contrast to the wolf, "The attacks on the Amity, Sojourn, and the Cerberus crew have opened the eyes of LCI's leadership to the threat such beings can pose. They want a response; they want people who know about them, who are familiar with their abilities. So they've put me in charge of creating a specialized task force to address the Cerinian situation, and I feel you have a lot to contribute to the effort."

"And what if I don't want to?" the wolf asked in a harsh voice, "It's like you said to Carmen, like _I _said to Carmen: I don't want that hectic shadowy life anymore. What makes you think I'd do all that again just because you asked me to?"

"Because ultimately you _will _want to do it again, even if you don't think so now." Rick answered.

"You'll understand if I find that a little hard to believe." Wiley quipped back as he rolled his eyes.

"Okay then, let's say for a moment Carmen said 'yes', that she let you back into your life and you got to raise your son, just like you wanted." Rick began, "Would you stop being the trouble magnet that Carmen believes you are? I imagine you would try, and you'd try very hard. The thing about having lived such a shady life like yours though, about having the skills and instincts you've accumulated, is that those will _never_ go away, and the world won't stop being dangerous just because you try to avoid danger. You would live your normal life, raise your family, go about whatever line of employment you found, and yet you would constantly be aware of all the shady underhanded activities that go on in the world. You would see all those threats to your family, to your community, and in the responsible paternal drive to protect your family, you would either be driven to confront these threats, putting your family in danger, or suffer a quiet shame as you stand by and do nothing to stop it. Honestly, how long do you think you could last in such a domesticated life before trouble, one way or another, finds you again?"

"But I'm _not_ out there, and Carmen already said _'no'_. So tell me, why would I want to work for your Agency, and do exactly what I said I don't want to do anymore?" the wolf demanded.

"For starters, it's better than rotting in a prison cell. By that I mean, becoming an agent is just option number one, and option two... Well, even if you _don't_ want to be trained as an agent, that will not make LCI leave you alone. If the Agency can't put your insights into Cerinians to work in the field –as is my personal recommendation– they will keep you locked up in a holding cell much like the one you have here, and use you as a consulting resource on Cerinian matters when the time comes."

"Maybe I don't mind that." Wiley said with a snide shrug, almost like he as doing it out of spite.

"Have you ever _been_ in extended isolated incarceration before? Do you know just how much that really sucks, especially for someone like you?"

"There are a lot of guys like me in lockup–"

"You have a _family_ now, with Carmen, and your baby son Wolf" Rick interrupted, "In extended isolation, your every waking thought will be slowly be consumed by them. You will wonder how they are doing, if they're alright, and you will want desperately to do something to help them. Locked away in your holding cell though, you will be utterly powerless to do anything at all for them, and it _will_ drive you insane."

"Aren't I the 'trouble magnet'?" Wiley asked, "Wouldn't being locked away keep them safe from me and the trouble I'm liable to bring them?"

"Yes, but that doesn't mean there aren't other sources of trouble that might threaten Carmen and your son." Rick added, "You've been to Sargasso station, you know for a fact that it is a downright dangerous place for a young single mother to raise a child."

And there it was.

Wiley couldn't make snide remarks about Carmen, he couldn't twist it to spite Rick, and he couldn't just ignore it. The paternal protective instincts in the wolf, the part of him that still hung onto his Carmen, that wanted to take responsibility for his child, had taken hold, "... I can't help them." he finally uttered, his voice weak, and his eyes downcast.

"But you _want_ to help them, I can see it in you as plain as day." Rick said, driving his point home, "If you accept recruitment, if you become an agent of Lylat Central Intelligence, we can have Carmen protected, kept safe, watched over. _We can help them._"

Slowly, the wolf looked up at the Rick, and asked, "How?"

"It'd be a surveillance and protection detail, assigned to Carmen and your son: standard practice for all LCI assets and agents that have family." Rick explained, "They'd keep their distance, and Carmen would never know of their presence unless it was deemed necessary. If there's any danger, the team there would either amend the situation themselves, or an agent would be dispatched to assist."

Wiley paused again here, and looked around, hesitating, fidgeting. As far as Rick could tell, his paternal responsibility instincts seemed to be satisfied by the terms, but there was something else holding him back, something he seemed to be on the verge of disclosing, if Rick's assessment of his body-language was correct.

"That's all real nice and all, but... I'm not sure I'm cut out to do... _this_." Wiley finally admitted, stumbling to assemble the words, "I mean... I'm not sure I _could _go back to to living that kind of life, doing the kind of spy work you want from me, even if I do want to do it."

"Why not?"

"Look at me! I got caught trying to do a simple stowaway!" the wolf snapped bitterly, holding up his cuffed hands, "I should've been able to get that off without a hitch, and here here I am, in this stupid jail, chatting it up with you in their interrogation room! I screwed up when I worked with you before, I screwed up when I was captured by the Cerberus crew, I screwed up under Harrow, I screwed up learning from Serge, and I screwed up my entire life even before that! And then I screwed everything up with Carmen..." Wiley said as his voice stumbled down, and collapsed to a kind of dejected muttering, "Take it from me you don't want to trust a guy like me with these Cerinian matters. They are complicated, dangerous, and _far_ over my head..."

"You see? _That_, right there, is _exactly_ why I trust you with these Cerinian matters." Rick said, oddly cheerful in the face of the other's despair.

"Because I'm a screwup?" Wiley asked, looking back with that bewildered look again.

"Yes," the raccoon said with a firm nod, "because even as screwed up as you think you are, you _still_ know more about Cerinians and their capabilities than the entire Lylat Central Intelligence combined."

"How could you possibly trust meafter what I've done to you,and the people you know?" Wiley shot back, "I've _killed _them! I nearly killed _you!_ I wiped up the Amity's security escort barely lifting a finger! I'm a goddamn monster!"

"That's right, your tradecraft is superb, some of the best I've ever seen over my career." Rick complimented, "Hell, you weren't even in your right mind when you did all those things: that's you as the so-called 'screwup'. Can you imagine how utterly dangerous you could be if you had your head screwed on straight? That's the kind of danger I want on _my_ side, doing what's right, what you _know_ needs doing in this crazy world."

For a while, Wiley sat speechless opposite Rick, mouth hung open. It seemed the doubts he had were lifted, or at least set aside for the time being, or may he'd simply run out of excuses. After a moment, the wolf finally showed movement again, and asked quietly, "What happens if I say yes?"

A small smile formed on Rick's face, before he replied, "If you agree to become an agent here and now, I'll make arrangements with the Interpatrol Captain on this station to have you 'transferred into LCI custody'." he explained, raising his hands in air quotes at the last part, "You get to rest up comfortably for the day, and we get started tomorrow."

"Started on what, exactly?"

"Boring procedural stuff mainly; getting you into the LCI network, aptitude assessments, paperwork and general housekeeping," the raccoon listed off with a nonchalant wave of his hand, "Of course, that's all just a means to an end. Eventually, the plan is to set up shop on Cerinia itself."

The pale wolf's eyebrows jumped up a bit, possibly in surprise, or astonishment, then he asked, "And you really think I'm the guy for the job, to go to Cerinia with you?"

"If I didn't, I wouldn't be here." the raccoon replied, remembering his own recruitment, how unsure he was.

After a moment, Rick saw a small spark of determination form in Wiley, barely a glimmer, but it was there nonetheless, "If it means stopping more maniacs like Harrow, I'll do it."

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><p>

Lombardi's, a small restaurant deep in downtown Corneria City, was right in the middle of a busy lunch-rush. It wasn't a fancy place, far from it, Lombardi's was more informal, more closely tied to the community. Most of the tables were packed with hungry customers, some with food and some without, and the kitchen in the back was firing at full-steam to keep up with the demand. The air inside the dining area was thick with the appetizing aroma of meats, cheeses, sauces and herbs, all with the din of dozens and dozens of conversations. One such conversation was between James McCloud, Vixy Reinard, and another...

"You two take a seat and be comfy." a gruff blue plumed avian said as he led the two foxes to an empty table, "I'll be back in just a sec to get your order." And with that, he strode off into the rest of the busy restaurant, leaving the two vulpine patrons to themselves.

"I am _so_ glad you didn't invite me to a movie for our first 'real' date." Vixy said in a cheerful voice as she sat down, her face naturally forming a smile as she spoke, "I'm absolutely _terrible_ when I'm watching them."

"Terrible? How's that?" James asked as he took a seat opposite the vixen.

"From my schooling, my training:" Vixy said, "I'd point out every little camera and lighting trick the cinematographer did, every plot and pacing device of the story, every editing gimmick, every little mistake they made along the way–"

"Ha! Now _that _I gotta see sometime!" James burst out, as a goofy grin formed on his muzzle.

"You are a _terrible_ person!" the vixen squealed in playful mock outrage.

"I know, I know, and you're the _only_ one who can save me from my terribleness!" the fox confessed, matching Vixy's playfulness with his overly dramatic tone and pose.

"Looks like I've got my work cut out for me then," Vixy said with a sly look across to James, "especially when it's the so-called 'hero for hire' who's in trouble."

"It's a tough mission, but I'm sure you're more than capable." the fox agreed with a little smirk.

The vixen allowed herself a short giggle, and finally took a look over the menu in front of her, asking, "So how _is_ that mercenary thing going for you anyway?"

"It's going okay, I guess." James answered with a shrug, looking down at menu for himself, and added, "We've got a gig with Owen Phoenix coming up."

"What, really? _The _Owen Phoenix?" Vixy asked, setting the menu down and gazing across the table with genuine shock, "Space Dynamics and everything?"

"Oh yeah. Me and the guys are coordinating a neat little sting operation with Interpatrol and Space Dynamics." James replied, keeping his playful cool, but only for a little bit, "We're meeting with the Interparol officer in charge tomorrow to discuss the details of the mission." his tone became more uncertain, wavering.

"Are you nervous?" Vixy asked, showing real concern in her gentle green eyes.

"Yeah, kind of..." the fox admitted, and sheepishly asked, "Is it that obvious?"

Vixy reached across the table, and gently took hold of the other's hand, "It's okay."

"Thanks," James said, grasping the vixen's hand in return, "Honestly, I'd be worried if I wasn't at least a little bit nervous, being my first freelance job and all."

"I does sound like a tough mission," Vixy said in an earnest tone, and gave him a smile as she added, "but I'm sure you're more than capable."

At that, James felt himself burst into a short laugh, and match the Vixen's smile exactly.

End Part Two

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><p>

Author Notes:

We've made it to the end of the second part! Finally! The next arc of the story will take place immediately following this particular chapter, and does indeed involve this mysterious job for Space Dynamics James and the guys have just been hired on for.

Thank you readers for sticking with this story through the long and short of it, and for the good and bad of it. Even so, we're barely getting started here, and there's still quite a ways to go. I hope to see all of you again as we push on, and many fine greetings to those who've joined us along the way.

Firstly, I'd like to apologize completely for how long this particular chapter has taken to write, edit, rewrite, edit again and finally publish. Things came up, I got mad writer's block, and other such unacceptable excuses. Secondly, many have sent me PMs to me that I've failed to respond to recently. I apologize for that as well, I normally am much better about responding quickly to my messages. Thirdly, on a related note, there are several stories I follow in this archive that I normally review quite promptly when updated, and I haven't, for which I apologize yet again.

Still, as far as I'm concerned, I've always found apologies inadequate, and much prefer action to mere words. So, over the next few days or so, I will do everything in my power right the wrongs I've listed above: reply to my messages, read/review the stories I normally follow diligently, and get chapters out quicker.

In that spirit, I have an announcement I'd like to make regarding Star Fox: Legacy: I will be having "character auditions" of a sort for the next volume.

I know, it's weird coming from me for something like that. I'd probably normally say it's something silly and tacky, but what the heck, I'll run it up the flagpole and see if it gets a salute or two.

Thing is, the basic idea for the next arc of Legacy was pulled together fairly quickly, and I don't have all the details for it figured out yet. James' fledgling team has yet to prove themselves, has yet to earn the respect and fame that Star Fox is supposed to be known for. So naturally, there will be those who will look down on them with contempt, especially other mercenaries. That's where you guys come in. What I would love from you readers, is a mercenary team, one to serve as direct competition and harsh rivals to James and the boys here.

If you're interested, or have questions about this, feel free to shoot a PM my way.

Otherwise, I wish you all the best of luck, and hope to hear from you all very soon,  
>chaos_Leader.<p> 


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